


Harvest Moon

by shoulderbone (lavenderforluck)



Series: Pointing at the Moon [3]
Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Artist!Even, Attempted Sexual Assault, Berlin (City), Clubbing, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Introspection, Languages, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Original Character(s), Past Character Death, Recreational Drug Use, Religious Conflict, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-07-29 02:01:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 90,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16254404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderforluck/pseuds/shoulderbone
Summary: He goes to the altar and kneels, expecting to find her face carved in the wood there. Except there are no altars. No God either, or angels, or saints. Or, alternatively: Berlin, those dwindling summer days, and Isak's week of reckoning.





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> This is the final work in the newly re-named Pointing at the Moon verse. Please heed that this is an canon-divergent series, and as the third and final part, we are now in heavy-AU territory here folks. To save you oodles of confusion, click the back button and read Part I and Part II respectively. This is set roughly 6 weeks after the end of LOMIS. 
> 
> Wow....where do I begin with this. First, there are two types of music in this part. Songs that are meant to be part of 'soundtrack' are linked in the date/time header, as before. However, given that Isak is - musically inclined - diegetic songs (meaning I wrote someone playing or putting on music within fic verse) will be linked _within the text_. In the past two parts, there has been no differentiation, but now there is.
> 
> For those of you on mobile, the playlist can be found [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4fQLp2llHUG0lm0N3vxCyw) \- and forgive me, they may or may not be in order by the time I post. Eventually they will be. 
> 
> Second...if you've read the first two parts, then you know the nature of the character death, as well as the heavy subject matter. So I will reiterate that warning, but also add in another: the drug use may be a little concerning for some - see end notes for more discussion on this.
> 
> Mind the constantly switching of languages - I decided not to just write things out in German (in a dream world Ao3 would have a super cool hyper-text link where a reader could hover over a sentence and it would show it in a different language if the author so chose to embed it!) so one must just use their imagination as to what it sounds like when you're speaking four different languages in one room, and I'm sure many of you already know anyway. There is plenty of French and anything that may not be obvious to the non-french speaker I've left in the notes at the end.
> 
> In this verse, I'm picturing very much present-day TSM with his lovely blonde haircut for his new movie - so if you wanna go with that imagining, hop on board. Since they're 21 & 23 in this fic respectively, I feel that baby-face Isak is a little out of place here.
> 
> None of this would have happened without Heidi_alterlove. She is the reason I wrote a third part at all, and the reason I was able to write and eventually finish this behemoth trilogy. Much love and many precious stars to you, mon amie. This story is for you.
> 
> Easter egg for this chapter is a F. Scott Fitzgerald reference. Claps if you find it <3
> 
> Okay - this note is long enough. I hope you enjoy the first part! 
> 
> <3

 

 

 

> **والله قال" أحب عدوك "، وأطعت له وأحب نفسي.**
> 
> **\- خليل جبران ، ذا بروكين وينجز**
> 
> (God said “Love your enemy," and I obeyed him and loved myself.
> 
>  - Khalil Gibran, [The Broken Wings](http://gutenberg.net.au/ebooks05/0500551h.html) )

 

-

 

TORSDAG 12:42

 

“I had the dream again,” Isak edges out.

“The dream,” Sabine acknowledges. She knows of which dream he is speaking of without further explanation.

“Yes,” Isak says, but only because he does not know how to continue. He studies the bronze skin of his feet, interrupted by tan lines left from his Birkenstocks. He could probably do with a toenail trim soon, because Berlin is nothing if not filled with dirt and dust edging its way underneath.

Sabine is patient: it’s one of reasons Isak keeps coming back to her. A silence permeates her office, condensed with peculiar keepsakes and illuminated by an untoward cast of light, flicking through the leaves outside and cutting through the stillness as they flutter in the wind. Isak watches the patterns it creates on the wall.

“I’m locked in bedroom again. I’m scared, and I can hear my mother on the other side of the door,” he says. “I always thought - well. In the dream, she is trying to get inside the room, even though…”

“Even though she locked the door in the first place?”

“Right,” Isak nods. “In the dream, I can feel her fear. And my own fear. It feels like I’m going to be sick.”

Sabine hums. Isak looks up from the white lines on his feet. How pale he is usually in the winter seems foreign to him now, in the dwindling days of August, when it feels like summer is all he’s known for years, instead of months. He wants to ask: what does Freud say about feeling nausea in a dream?

“I used to tell myself that she used to lock me in my room because she was scared of me,” Isak explains. It mostly for the sake of his own linear narrative; Sabine alreadys knows he thought this. “But I don’t think she was scared of me.”

“What do you think she was scared of?”

Isak looks up at Sabine now, and watches her fingers interweave over her knee, the image of patience. “I think she was scared of what she was seeing or experienced in her mind, and locking me in my room...I don’t know. Like she was protecting me from whatever was tormenting her.”

“Ah,” Sabine notes. “But before, as a child, you used to think it was because she hated you. And now this feeling has changed. Do you think there is a reason as to why?”

Sabine always references to Isak as ‘the child’ when his teenage years are brought into question, and that word always forces him to reconsider the amount of responsibility he bestows upon his younger self (and perhaps this is Sabine’s point?)

There had been many conversations surrounding the topic of his mother hating him - of which Isak was completely convinced, at least during the first few sessions in April. He used to say to her: _she hated me, and I hated me, and I loved her, and I hated her._ It seems so long ago now.

“I think… I realise now that my mother was not capable of hating me,” Isak answers. “I mean, it’s almost ridiculous how I thought she didn’t love me. She did love me - a lot.”

“Do you think the idea of your mother hating you made it easier to explain why she treated you the way she did?”

Well, exactly, Isak thinks. It’s almost simple when organised like an equation. Isak sighs: Sabine always so eloquently articulated questions in a way that created space for Isak to answer. Sometimes he didn’t, sometimes it is impossible to find the words.

“It didn’t feel easier,” he says. “But yes.”

Sabine frowns, the wrinkles around her eyes blinking at him. “No, you’re quite right. Poor choice of wording.”

“I always thought that her behaviour towards me was because she hated me. It made _sense._ I didn’t know what was going on. I didn’t know what paranoid schizophrenia was when I was eight. But now I’m starting to see that maybe she was fucking afraid of whatever the hell was going on in her head. And she wanted to save me from something terrible.”

In a private joke to himself, he adds, “Eternal damnation, probably.”

“Okay,” Sabine takes a small drink of water, and it reminds Isak that his throat is uncomfortably dry. He mimics her. “So, when she was becoming paranoid of dangers that seemed imminent, and real, she sought to keep you away from it. Am I understanding what you’re meaning?”

He looks down at his feet again, the water doing little to abade his thirst. “Yeah. Sometimes she’d lock me in my room and I’d hear shit flying and breaking everywhere, and I’d be scared because I didn’t know how worse still it would get.”

Then Isak says what sits upon the tip of his tongue, begging for release, “and then other times...other times, I’d hear her on the other side of the door, crying. And praying.”

“Praying?”

“That we’d be saved. That God would come and relieve us from this miserable life,” his vision clouds for a moment, and with a thick swallow, he clears any presiding mistyness. He looks away. “I didn’t know, I thought maybe it was miserable because I was there.”

“Right. And yet we also know that your mother loved you,” Sabine gently points out. This is true. Isak has since read some of her journals he collected from the white house in Fagerborg to know this is true.

All he can do is nod. Everything else is still, except for a white noise buzzing in Isak’s ears. Sabine looks at the time; Isak looks at the time. Their session has ended. She tucks a piece of her auburn hair behind her ear.

Isak says, “I just want to know why I keep having the same dream.”

Sabine nods. “Well, there can be a multitude of reasons. Grief permeates all layers consciousness. What has happened to you in your childhood was particularly traumatic, adding on top of that the death of your mother. And...our brains are mysterious. No one truly understands how the subconscious works. That’s why we have therapy, to talk about it. Perhaps there is more to tell there.”

She goes to her computer, presumably to log the end of their session. Isak slots his feet fully into his sandals, and stands up to leave.

“The script will be ready for you by Monday,” she informs him. “You can pick it up from Caroline at the front desk. Until next week, Isak.”

Outside, the smell of warm raw sewage overwhelms his senses, and only after turning a corner and walking another block does it begin to retreat. The quiet street and the quiet of his brain leaves him unsettled and swaying precariously on the corner there, but no sooner that he thinks this does the noise sweep in, crawling through the ether at a terrifying speed. He can hear his own voice so clearly like he’s still there in that room: _let me out, mamma! Let me out! LET ME OUT -_

Hurtling his body against his bedroom door, panic welling inside his chest like a balloon, bursting from him in a puddle of tears as he wept, his shoulders sore from trying to break the door, and she would scream at him, she would, she would scream YOU ARE BETTER OFF WHERE NO ONE SHALL SEE YOU -

His eyes are wet, threatening an over spill. He stands in the alley behind Sabine’s office in Mitte, pressing the balls of his hands into his eyes until he can only see little stars and random squiggly lines, until his chest stops constricting painfully like he may combust at any given second, heaving and heaving, his brain a dead weight in his fucking head -

He breathes through it. This happens sometimes.

Often Isak will go into a session with Sabine in high spirits: feeling a sense of security that soon, he will no longer need her, that he’s doing fine; able to wake in the morning without an overwhelming sense of dread; or fall asleep at night without anxiety plaguing him into the early hours of the next day. And then by the end of the session, he’s so far removed from this false sense of security that it threatens to destroy him. These truths he tells himself are merely smoke and mirrors: the grieving process is over and done with, that now that his mother has passed; these childhood horrors must no longer plight him.

But shaking with the irrevocable truth underneath the August sunshine reminds him there’s a long way yet to go.

 

-

 

[TORSDAG 16:20](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4gl-JDyyiNM)

 

After a fitful, dream-riddled nap on the sofa, Isak finds a needed retreat out on the balcony. He sits cross legged on Martin’s wicker chair, nursing a joint he forgot about last night, trying to find some inner tune to his thoughts as they ping all around him. There’s a missed Face Time chat with Jonas, and an swathe of unread texts from the group chat, no doubt more photos of street art Yanny has found, Isak is sure.

He tries to gather what pieces of the dream he remembers; a large domed church, red brick, drops of blood falling into the snow and melting it a little, fresh then. The strangled lyric floating in and out of his head he thinks he remembers from somewhere but can't quite place: _let's go out and feel the night._... Sabine and he have discussed, on a multitude of occasions, that it is not necessary always to make sense of the dream - to cling to it with all he has, especially if it feels harmful. Isak tries to resist the images; the images try to resist him too, and his brain remains battling them back and forth.

He inhales, and then exhales, letting the smoke and all the residual energy subside in him. He scrolls aimlessly in his phone for a second, before going to his call icon.

After a few rings, Even picks up, his voice caught up in a gush of air, “Hey - ?”

“Hi,” Isak says, very quietly, and squints out into the neighbouring courtyard. There’s a few children riding their bikes in circles and shouting. Their laughter floats all the way up. Even to his own ears he sounds sad. He clears his throat. “Sorry, is this a bad time?”

“What? No - er give me one second, I just nearly dropped you in a can of paint, and that would be my second - no third - phone I’ve done that to,” some more rustling, and then all is clear. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Isak says automatically. “Well. I had therapy. And a nap.”

“Nice combo,” Even hums, “You okay, though?”

Isak thinks about it. Sometimes that question is so goddamn heavy. “I will be. Tell me, what have you gotten up to?”

“Just getting the logistics of this project, gathering materials, you know….er, Mari actually called me earlier, told me she’s planning some new trip to Capri? Or was it Cinque Terre? Dunno. Sounded nice though. Told me to tell you that she said hello.”

“Oh,” Isak returns awkwardly, “Well, tell her hello back.”

He’s still unsure as to what the exact situation is between he and Even’s roommates - or _Even_ and his roommates, for that matter - but Hemi apologised (not to Isak, a voice in his head bitterly reminds him) to Even, and there was a week or two where Even bemoaned having to return to the flat to face the residual awkwardness. But at some point in July, Mari bridged an olive branch by suggesting a dinner - something that Isak desperately, and silently, did not want to attend - but it made Even perk up all the same, and gradually they start to think that maybe the worst of it was behind them. Thankfully, the dinner has yet to happen. In a way, Isak gets it. He knows better than anyone that shit with roommates becomes embroiled in complications.

“Of course, of course. So - are you excited?”

“Very,” Isak doesn’t need to feign excitement in voice - he feels it, from the bottom of his feet straight up to the tip of his tongue. “It kills me to know you’re already in Berlin but not here yet.”

“Soon,” Even assures him. They’d been discussing this for the last two weeks since Even received news he’d been brought on to work with an artist in Berlin on some secret project. “I’m going to be arriving around five instead six now, actually, tomorrow - you sent me the address?”

“Yes, to your phone and your email, make sure you save it in your maps,” he reminds him, “And don’t be late, I’ll be waiting.”

“Me! Late? Never,” Even jokes. “Shit, babe - Hedda is calling me. I gotta go. But I’ll see you soon, okay?”

The tell-tale call of Martin announcing his arrival through their front door reaches the balcony, and Isak smiles into his phone, nevermind that no one can see him. “No worries, Martin just came home. Good luck on whatever you’re doing. I’ll see you soon. Very soon. Tomorrow, in fact.”

“Can’t wait!”

Neither can Isak.

 

-

 

FREDAG 07:47

 

“Good morning, ma cher,” Martin is an illimitable ball of  energy in the morning, something which Isak has never been able to find conclusive evidence for: Martin stays up later than he, and wakes up earlier as well. It may have more to do with the fact that Martin sleeps less but far more productively thank Isak. He hasn’t had a full night’s sleep in however many months. He stopped counting because it was depressing him.

“Morning,” Isak grumbles, and promptly empties the rest of the coffee in their dubious french press. Their kitchen always feels a little claustrophobic for Isak . Rows of shelves lined the narrow strip of wall and are brimming with spices, half-finished boxes of cereal and various other ingredients Martin insists on keeping extras of. From below lies a line of pots and pans hanging from hooks, which clang together like rudimentary wind chimes when the window is open and it’s particularly gusty outside.

Plants hanging low from overhead, reminding Isak to duck, unless he wishes to meet a face full of leaves and dirt. On the counter sat a battered GDR-era robin egg blue compact radio,boasting the most aggressive antenna Isak has ever found himself on the wrong side of. It’s sole purpose, besides being ugly, is to blare [Deutsch Welles](https://www.dw.com/en/radio/s-32771) at any given time of the day. Martin is the Queen of the Kitchen - at least, this is what his favourite apron says - this much is clear.

The only pleasant feature lies in the large window, those of which are  typical of Berlin apartments overlooking their courtyard below. Beneath the window sat a small bench fashioned out of stacked crate boxes, their weight structured by the sheet amount of cookbooks Martin owned in an array of languages sitting  inside of them. It overlooks the balcony which one can enter from the living room, and creates a stratum of filtered light in the mornings.

When sleep eludes him one hour too many, Isak seeks refuge on that makeshift bench, because there he can see the moon, and listen to music, playing low from the old dock above their fridge. It was here he made the [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/74cDBGSF7EHp86l5K201Ai) for Even.

Something hard collides into the side of Isak’s head, causing his coffee to spill over the side of his cup and burning his fingers. He blinks in confusion, hardly able to react except to rub the pulsating ache on his temple - and then he’s hit again at the back of his skull, this time by an overflowing fruit basket, laden with heavy grapefruit and bananas. His annoyance only grows when he realises that it was not _his_ fault this time, but rather that all the plants have been rearranged. Now they dangle over his usual spot at the breakfast table like an obtrusive chandelier, and he crouches low with exaggerated care.

“What the fuck,” Isak curses in Norwegian, still dazed and reticent from the lack of sleep. He stares petulantly at his coffee cup, only Martin’s talk radio and the scrape of a wooden spoon against the fry pan providing noise to distract from his bad mood. Martin, to his credit, takes notice of this calamity with only a raised eyebrow and a shrug, as if rearranging their already crowded kitchen is within the realm of normalcy this early in the day.

Without having to ask a plate is pushed in front of him with eggs and a small pulpy pile of grapefruit in the corner. They are Martin’s favourite, and he insists they eat one every morning. Next to Isak’s plate, Martin plops down a handful of pills, including a new one slimy yellow oblong one.

“What is that,” Isak intones flatly in German, pointing to the bulbous pill. The others he knows: morning doses of his antidepressant, iron supplement, melatonin, rhodiola that Martin insists he takes, because it comes from an Apotheke _all the way near Rüdesheimer Platz, Isak_ -

“It’s Cod liver oil,” Martin says, and then before Isak rebukes him with _what on earth is Cod liver oil, for fuck’s sake_ \-  he goes, “It’s supposed to help reduce inflammation, high in vitamin D, which you need, by the way, you never have enough colour, I swear, and improve physical symptoms of anxiety. Just swallow it and don’t complain.”

Then Martin smiles. “Hah, I said that the other day! How cute am I right now, Isak? Tell me how cute I am.”

Isak grimaces around the strange slippery feeling of the cod liver oil going down his throat, he imagines it coating the rest of his drugs and congealing in his gut. Regardless though, he knows that he wouldn’t bother with half of this shit, and he never tells Martin thank you, not really, so he mumbles, “Very cute,” with great regret in his tone.

“And how did you sleep?” Martin asks when he sits down.

“Terrible,” he mutters, rubbing his eyes. “I think I finally passed out around five.”

Martin frowns. “It’s nearly eight now.”

“Exactly,” Isak says.

“Well, what do you have to do today? Can you just take it easy?” Martin butters two slices of bread and passes them over. Isak puts his eggs onto them and shovels one into his mouth, chewing instead of answering.

“No, I can’t just ‘take it easy,’” he shrugs, but even to his own ears his tone is more grumpy than necessary. He relents his stiff posture a little. With a slouch, he says, “Even is supposed to arrive today.”

“Okay, when?”

Isak pretends to think about it, but he already knows. He’s obsessively checked the time and date for Even’s arrival all week. “Five.”

“Five!” Martin scoffs. A steady stream of Whatsapp messages updating every few seconds with accompanying (and very annoying, Isak thinks) vibrations. He flips his phone to show Isak a photo. Isak catches the group header, which is just a dolphin, Chinese lantern and warlock emojis, and knows which chat it is now: Yanny, a photographer-cum-dancer and Michel, his boyfriend-artist and Peter, some kind of arts student, who live two buildings over on Richardstraße.

Isak  just looks at it, unsure of what he’s really seeing: a blurry photo taken from the S-Bahn window of some kind of street art with words on it and then Martin takes his phone back, already typing out another message. “Have you seen this? Apparently Yanny saw this just before Treptower Park, and it’s _huge_ , just near that heinous looking gym behind [Else](http://www.else.tv/#/page/klub). Covers the whole side of the building.”

Isak just stares at him. Martin is always jumping from one topic to another without disclosure as to which he’s speaking off, instead preferring to weave them into overlapping stories which may or may not have endings.

In this case Isak is rather unamused; Yanny is always taking of photos and spamming their group chats with them, so much so that Isak has the entire group on mute.  This city is one layer of street art and defilement after another. And all of it’s strange and trying to proclaim something. Artistic or arresting, even when it professes nothing; even when it’s just PUSSY in block letters outside Hermannplatz.

When Isak says nothing, Martin puts his phone down and chides him a little. “Honey, just go back to fucking sleep. I’ll wake you up at four. Then you’ll have an hour - which is plenty of time, the flat is pretty clean, what with that scourge you did yesterday - thank you for that, by the way, I’ve never seen the tub look like that, I had no idea it was originally that white - and that will give you enough time to prepare for him coming.”

“I don’t know. I still have to clean my room, and do laundry, and the bin’s need taking out - and  every time you say you’ll wake me up you don’t.”

“Ugh, God help me, Isak. I’ve already told you that I don’t have it in me to wake you when there’s no reason to, and you’re very convincing when you want to be,” Martin scrunches his nose. Back to his phone. “‘Five more minutes, Martini, just five more, I swear’ - you say this, you know you say this. I’m weak. Very weak. And you’re incorrigible.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” he sniffs. Truthfully Isak has no adequate rebuttal for this. He’s aware how different a person he is when he’s actually sleeping.

Martin rolls his eyes. “Eat your fruit. You need Vitamin C. You look pale.”

“I’m literally so tan compared to how I’ve been all year,” Isak points out, but Martin just fixes him with a look that negates any further discussion, and so Isak does as he told, the bitter juice of the grapefruit sour and startling on his tongue. Like it is every morning.

 

-

 

FREDAG 17:22

 

An irritant ringing disturbs him from sleep, and half a second later Isak is sitting upright on the sofa, taking in deep gulps of air and looking around for the source of the noise. Someone is buzzing their door. He grapples for his phone and his gut sinks when he realises the time. Fuck, fuck - fucking fuck - where the fuck is Martin? Why didn’t he wake him? Fuck, Isak fucking knew this would happen -

Stumbling to the door, he presses the key button on their wall phone and takes another deep breath: his clothes are sticking unpleasantly to his back, his face is grimy with sleep. He’s so sweaty and desperately needs a shower. The flat is quiet except for the tinkering [tune](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TVa5842D004) on the radio in the kitchen, and Isak listens more closely for the tale-tell signs of Martin. But he’s obviously not here. If he was, Isak would probably start screeching. This is the terrible. This is worse than terrible; it’s embarrassing.

A knock on the door effectively halts his train of thought, and for a beat he doesn’t move. He knows that Even is on the other side of the door. This morning there were miles between them - and now, just a few inches of a thick, stubborn old door.

He opens it and finds Even standing there, his hair tousled perfectly on his head, a single curl falling down and brushing against the rim of his thick tortoise shell glasses, looking effortless and cool in a patterned shirt and a pair of cuffed jean shorts. He bypasses alluring into an distinctive territory all his own: gracious, mesmeric; unsettling. From the slant of his hip, his knee bent at an angle as he stands there, mouth pursed, and eyes lit in amusement like he’s asking Isak a question. Like he’s always excited for an answer . Isak just gapes at him, and then realising what his expression must look like, closes his mouth.

“Hi,” he breathes. “I’m so sorry - how long were you waiting out there?”

Even smiles, his eyes turning upward in the corners. “ Not long at all. I was late, actually. So I should be the one apologising.”

“No, seriously,” he moves to the side to let Even inside, a small suitcase behind him. He shuts the door. “You’re not late. I overslept, and I didn’t hear my alarm, and Martin  was supposed to wake me up, but he’s nowhere to be found, which is classic Martin, really - ” Isak realises he’s rambling. “Sorry. I don’t know what happened. I just woke up and I'm so confused and annoyed.”

“Luckily you’re talking to someone who has experience with that,” Even smiles as he says it, lips always so curiously pink. It’s borderline infuriating how much glee he’s experiencing from the situation. And if he wasn’t so attractive it might incense Isak to turn sour, but as it is he’s dazed already from just waking, and further disarmed by the glorious specimen standing in front of him, in his flat, in Berlin, where he’s never been before, and _fuck_ -

“Shit, you’re actually here,” Isak mumbles. Rubs the back of his head. “I know we saw each other like, two weeks ago. But. Hi.”

Even tilts his head. “I am here, yeah. In Berlin, with you,” then he chuckles a little, coming closer, closer still and running a hand over Isak’s shoulder. Considering. “Hi.”

God, the feeling welling up inside of Isak now. Already. Christ, how does one grow accustomed to butterflies such as these? He huffs without any real ire behind it. “Come in, come in. Leave your stuff, let me give you a tour. A small tour. It’s not a big flat.”

“Looks bigger than mine,” Even remarks. His eyes don’t wander at all. He just keeps staring at Isak, staring so intensely that if he confessed right now he could read minds Isak would believe him. If he confessed right now that he was committing Isak to memory and that he’s never forgotten a single memory in his entire life, he’d believe that too. It’s Even. It’s within him, this capability to convince Isak of anything. Including the absurd.

“Well, maybe. But small for the Berlin standard,” Isak contends.

But before he can move, he’s embraced in a back-cracking hug. At first he’s reminded how overheated he is, how his shirt cleans to his back, how engulfed he feels by Even. No matter what,  he’s always a little surprised by the amount of height Even still has on him. It delights him in the most peculiar way. They stand there hugging each other, and Isak lets his eyes slip closed for a beat. Even kissing the side of his face, then his eyebrow, then his forehead, and finally his mouth. He internally frowns; he knows he has sleep breath. Regardless, Isak only wishes to kiss him again and again.

When Even steps away he rubs his hands together. “Okay,” he says. “You show me around, grand tour master.”

“Right,” Isak clears his throat. “Well, actually, here’s the living room. This is where we spend most of our time - well, I spend most of my time in here,” Isak explains and then juts his thumb behind his back towards the kitchen entry, “And Martin’s domain is the kitchen. You’ll see what I mean when you meet him. Then we have a bathroom - there and the bedrooms - opposite each other.”

“Mar- _teen_ ,” Even sounds out, mimicking him. “Cute. He going to be around later?”

“I’m assuming,” Isak responds drily. “Though maybe he knows I’ll be having it out with him, so who knows.”

“Oh, why? Because he didn’t wake you up in time?” Even teases, “I like you like this.”

Isak frowns. “What, sweaty as fuck and needing to brush my teeth? Great. Lovely. That’s really a boost to my confidence.”

It stirs a laugh from him. “Your post-nap anger is exactly the same in Berlin. I’ve missed it”

A reluctant smile flashes across his face and he sighs. It’s true. Even is here, and he’s unable to process this emotional uprising stirring within at the sight of him finally being _in_ Berlin, and seeing all of Isak’s life here for the first time, in the dead middle of the hottest August on record, looking so sublime in his cool summer clothes. There’s really no need to be this irritated, regardless if Even is unfazed by it.

“Right,” Isak clears his throat. He goes to bring Even’s suitcase into his room, glaring at the small messes still left that he meant to tidying earlier, had he been awake on time. He turns away from it, ignoring the urge to shove it all in closet. He’ll have to do it later.

Their living room  serves as the nucleus connecting all the other doors in the apartment. The room is painted an ashen sage, worn out and peeling in patches and in the corners. On the far wall, where Even stands between the toilet and Martin’s bedroom, sits a long dining cabinet rescued from a flea market last year, and on it sat a large antiquated vanity mirror, stained with paint flecks and other various questionable substances. Hanging from it is a banner made of silk ties and sashays, the fringes of which hang low over the mirror like a eighties style curtain. Isak, standing on the opposite side inside his doorway, sees his legs in the mirror’s reflection.

Even takes his time in examining each and every artefact on the cabinet, from the stacks of old [Texte Zur Kunst](https://www.textezurkunst.de/) to the arrangement of glass liquor bottles with [Gibson-girl](https://www.art.com/gallery/id--a62481/charles-dana-gibson-posters.htm) inspired labels, emptied long ago and filled with dried flowers, the piles of costume jewellery and old grocery lists. Isak doesn’t disturb him.

“This apartment is so cool,” Even says without turning around.

“Don’t have to sound _too_ surprised.”

Even backtracks towards the front door, to where the record player sits on another squat dresser, this one a faded dark turquoise that someone must have tried to paint over at at time and gave up halfway; beside it to a clunky television, perpetually dusty and housing a shrine of half-melted candles on top.

Even recognises right away the VCR attachment at the bottom, and places his fingers in the mouth of tv, considering.

“Martin insists on keeping it for the purpose of nostalgia,” he explains, and the response he gets  is only a soft chuckle, Even clearly mesmorised by the amount of sheer things in this room. He returns to full height to regard the imposing wall-to-wall stretch of shelves; here is an almost overwhelming number of records, CD’s, Vhs tapes and movies and of course, books. They’re organised by languages - Isak’s doing when he first moved in. German dominates six whole rows, as it is Martin’s mother tongue, but there is also a significant amount of French, Turkish and English, and a growing number of Norwegian books in the far right corner.

“I see you have the same [Parallel Universes](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/8167094-the-hidden-reality) book.”

“That’s the OG too. The one we bought in Norli like forever ago,” Isak says. It had been Even’s present to Isak when they were preparing to leave for Berlin after Isak had finished Nissen. That feels like alternate reality now; those days, so far away from them. The spine of the book is nearly completely unsewn on the ends from it’s overuse, evidence that it is in fact the same universe after all.

In the centre of the room, facing the wall of books and the television, sits their threadbare viridian sofa, the velvet waning with age and worn out on the arms, a dilapidated quilt where Isak was sleeping cast over the back of it, the throw pillows in a pile on their Persian rug that they’d hustled from a shop off Sonnenallee, and which only smelt slightly fetid when it rained; whatever, it was worth the price they bargained for.

Even’s already drifted to the large single window which also serves as their balcony door, wedged between Isak’s room and the kitchen entry away in the corner. It stretches vertically, nearly to the ceiling, with baroque inspired accents in the arched window at the top, and is solely responsible for the sheer amount of light in the room.

Next to it, angled just so, is his desk, a long, obtuse block of wood with robust legs heavier than a piano; it is the only thing to have come with the apartment, probably because no one wanted to bother moving it down four flights of stairs. None of Martin’s previous roommates had ever claimed it. So it was bequeathed to Isak, remaining the only surface in apartment uncluttered with trinkets, keepsakes, books or whatever else. In the mornings it is outfitted in a kind of seraphic lighting which beckons Isak to sit at his desk and stare southwards into the city; he can see the treetops of Körner park, and beyond that, Tempelhof.  

“That’s my desk,” Isak informs him. “Martin’s not allowed to touch it. One time he did a project on it and now glitter is a permanent part of the wood finish.”

Even’s staring at the poster above Isak’s desk.

He chuckles. “I can tell. One thing here is not like the others…” Even teases, running his fingers along the ledge.

“And is this _your_[Kirchner](https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Potsdamer_Platz_\(Gem%C3%A4lde\)) you’ve put here?” Even remarks, finally looking at Isak. For a moment all he can do is stare at him: the taut, drastic shape of his face, his cheekbones running like highways, his penetrating blue eyes, limited in their intensity by the glasses - but only just - that curl that sweeps his forehead, and the piqued line of his inquisitive brow.

And then he remembers himself. “Oh - that’s Martin’s. He’s a big fan of Kirchner, he can tell you all about him. He’s doing his thesis on him - ”

But Even only doubles back again, unexpectedly, to the mirrored vanity between the bathroom and Martin’s room. Isak follows him with his eyes, watches as he zeros in on a small cluster of artwork hanging over the mirror. He bypassed it the first time, giving the frank and overwhelming nature of how much stuff is actually in this flat, never mind that some of the pictures hanging up literally go all the way up the tall ceilings; but of course, he goes back to this one, like he already knows and  - it’s Even. Isak shouldn’t be surprised.

“I like these a lot,” Even remarks, pointing out one of them. They’re an arrangement of four framed shadow boxes, fifteen by fifteen centimetres, all matted in egg-white and arranged in two couplets. In the centre are yellowed sheets of paper with a plain type font and double lined spacing. The majority of the words are cut and removed, whilst others are blacked out with ink; remaining are a tiny vertical line of words or fragments which compose a poem. "They intrigue me."

They are Martin’s most recent project, each painstakingly attentive to the detail, down to the comma which is left in, or the period which is removed; to rely a sense of elusiveness whilst almost comprising of an exhausting exactitude to not remove too little or too much. Isak’s heard Marin explain it more than once, both to himself and others who have come across them or enquired. Each of them tell a different story. Isak knows them all by heart.

The bottom two are the same in regards to the thin yellowed paper and the font, but this time the words which are missing are replaced with tiny rectangles of red thread, diligently sewn in to the backing without a single misplaced stitch.

“Those are by Martin,” Isak explains. “His bedroom also serves as his studio. It was a paper-clipping storm for weeks.”

Even doesn’t look away, and Isak grows more agitated just standing here, arms hanging by his sides, the back of his neck prickling with a new surge of heat. He can almost picture Even reading, his lips moving along each line. Then he says, “Did he write the poems and the source material as well?”

“I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it,” Isak says by way of answering. “And - that reminds me, I should warn you. Martin, his English, now it’s not bad, but - he can be a bit frustrating to understand.”

They go into the kitchen, which brings out an amused huff from Even, probably in regards to the slew of hanging plants. It’s visually overwhelming, the amount of greenery dangling from the ceiling on these thin strings, capable of snapping at any moment.

“Oh, wow, there are a lot going on in here,” Even tilts his head. “And - okay. In what way is he frustrating?”

“Maybe, you’ll like it actually,” Isak shrugs. “He tends to talk about three things at once, all the time, and usually in two or three languages. Come on.”

“Sounds entertaining,” he’s moved already to survey at the photos tacked up in a collage clustered on  their petite refrigerator. “I like these analogue strips- they’re like the real deal vintage ones, it looks like.”

“Those are from the [Photoautomat](http://www.photoautomat.de/index.html),” Isak answers, looking at the strips of black and white photos of various nights out and friends of Martin’s. “They’re all over Berlin, you’d love them. We’ll go.”

He steps a little closer to see which one Even is pointing at; it’s the one of him and Martin from before Isak left in June; they stopped in Warschauer straße on a night out, that last weekend they went to [Sisyphos](https://sisyphos-berlin.net/start); Isak grinning, a large glitter heart drawn around one eye. Martin had two. A part of him wants to explain the makeup: _there was a fancy dress party, so we had to dress up, and Martin was already doing his face, and I didn’t want to be the only one without something_ \- but then Isak bites every reason back; no one asked him why. There is no trial being held, no jury, no judge. Just Even, gazing at their faces. Smiling a little softly to himself. In the photos they’re caught mid-laugh, and it’s undeniable how joyful they are.

“What languages does he speak?”

“German, he’s from Berlin,” Isak says. “But his mother is Swiss-born, so French. And his father is Turkish, but I’m not sure - what his level is there. And English, but from like, high school -  rare unless it’s slang or pop-culture related. He says he’s learning some Norwegian but I think he just means he wants to know the bad words. According to him it sounds too undelicate.”

“Undelicate?” Even scoffs. “Well, this is new. Especially coming from a German - if we’re really going to talk about languages which decidedly do not sound romantic, then German is going to be up on the list…”

“Ha, I know, right?” he laughs. It’s been a whole summer of being in Oslo and speaking Norwegian and living without any comment, nice or otherwise, about his native tongue, and he loved that feeling of belonging in a way that he’s never loved it (or, perhaps - felt like he could own it) before.

“He says there’s too much ‘R-rolling’ but like in terms of drama, French easily takes the cake in excessive sounds. He’s just in denial. Anyway. Just a warning, if you’re getting confused, it’s not you. It’s Martin. I’m confused every day of my life, living with him.”

Even turns around to him again, smiling. He raises his eyebrows. “But you like it? Living with him?”

“Very much,” he says immediately. “Anyway. Come on. If you think there’s a lot of plants here, you should see the bathroom.”

Like the rest of their flat, the bathroom has a cramped appealed to it. There is a staggering amount of foliage, painting the close quarters in thick swatches of various greens and keeping the air perpetually damp unless the window is cracked. A shabby dressing table sits underneath the window, nearly overlapped by the sink, and here a litany of Martin’s bath products clutter the surface, leaving space only for a temperamental orchid  to occupy in the corner.

What little space exists is dominated by a large claw foot tub, no doubt a replacement for whatever more sensible sized bath preceded it, and thus forcing any occupant to shimmy sideways down the length of it and the wall to reach the toilet and the towel cabinet. On the wall behind the bath is a large metal grid where a snake plant, Devil’s ivy and a cast iron plant hang from.

“There’s toothpaste here, floss, and shampoo and soap - just use whatever, we share it all, it doesn’t matter. If it looks like something you don’t know, ask. Only because it could be actually some of Martin’s art paste instead of gel, which I made the mistake of once and I don’t think my hair ever recovered from. And - oh yeah. This is how you move the hanging plants if you want to shower, so they don’t get over-watered. But then we move them back so they’re not too crowded. The steam is moisture enough usually.”

“I thought you were kidding, about there being more plants,” Even says, taking note of a particularly voluptuous Boston Fern hanging from the shower rail, and the small army of Aloe Vera plants on the window sill and on the back of the toilet.

“I have far better jokes than that,” Isak retorts, crab-walking down the narrow aisle to reach for Even a towel and a washcloth. “Imagine I tell you there’s a shitload of plants and then there isn’t any.”

“Well, right,” Even acquiesces, holding his towels. “But, I mean. How does he keep all of these up?”

Isak has to laugh. “He! Keep up?  He! No, that would be me!”

“ _You_?”

“Yes!” he scoffs a little. “Martin knows how to care for them, this is true, but he’s inconsistent. These babies need someone whose going to nurture them, prune then, change their pots when they grow too much, and make sure they’re getting the right sun-to-shade ratio, and not too water, especially in the winter, because they can succumb to mold - ”

Isak is met with the sight of Even’s burgeoning grin. He frowns. “What.”

“Nothing, it’s just - I didn’t realise you were a plant mom.”

“Stop,” Isak mutters. “You should have seen the state of some of these when I moved in. All these plants without any drainage. Anyway. We should go out for a beer or something. But first, I’m going to shower.”

“You haven’t shown me your room yet,” Even pouts.

“That’s true,” Isak raises an eyebrow. "It's disappointing compared to everything else. Trust me. And if we go in there now, I certainly will not be leaving anytime soon, because there’s a bed in there, and you, and - ”

“I see your point,” Even nods, and then to Isak’s momentary confusion, drops the towel on the sink ledge and goes to pull off his shirt.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like, Isak?”

“Like….” Isak understands. Even just raises his an eyebrow, and Isak turns on the taps. He carefully manoeuvres a hefty philodendron pot slightly to the side, and then the fern, before pulling back the curtain.

Their piles of clothes remain as the only evidence of their existence to the world outside; here behind the curtain, huddled in close, they are hidden away. Isak tilts his head up and rivulets cascade down the sides of his face, the slouchy demeanour which hung around him washing down the drain. He allows Even a gratuitous glance at his back before turning around and stepping closer until they’re touching.

First just the arches of their feet touch. Then the skin of their thighs where they slot closer together, the brush of their dicks pressing an electric shiver zipping up Isak’s spine. Even matches his movements, aligning  their chests so Isak wraps his arms around him and presses his nose into his collarbone. Takes a deep, gulping breath and lets the water swallow them whole. It’s too warm to run a hot shower, but regardless of the tepid temperature the air grows opaque with steam and clean oxygen stings with each breath.

“I’m so happy you’re here,” he mouths against the wet skin of his clavicle. Even’s hands run through Isak’s hair, across his scalp, just a little pressure, like he knows Isak likes. He hums melodically, lips moving across his forehead, temples, anointing him with his lips.

“You can’t be happier than I am right now,” Even whispers and then kisses Isak again. Water drips into their mouths, tongues moving with abandon, teeth knocking gently. Isak’s hard so quickly it surprises him, the force behind his desire, how badly he wants Even, how much he wants to crawl inside of him and never, ever, leave.

“You wanna bet?” Isak presses up against him so he’s is _fully_ aware and Even answers him in a bright, sudden burst of laughter breaking their kiss, the sound swallowed whole by the shower, but Isak hears it. Isak would hear it anywhere.

 

-

 

[LØRDAG 00:11](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b9zl2wWcfb4)

 

Bellies full, they meander down through Karl Marx Straße, a wide, sprawling road that runs through the centre of inner-Neukölln. Earlier they’d gone to a späti for a couple of beers and Isak introduced him to the intimate, hidden wonders of Körner park, an oasis of whitewashed concrete façades and billowing willow trees, a picturesque fountain converging in the middle. For a couple of hours they had just talked and lounged around, allowing intermittent breaks to swap spit and run their hands all over each other. All their pent up energy from the weeks apart now felt like an extended release pill Isak forgotten he swallowed, little spikes of giddiness bursting from him without warning.

Now in the dark, it’s relatively peaceful between them. Even has grown quiet,  slightly leading, eyes wide open and absorbing everything he comes across; Isak, allowing himself to be led, and observing his own neighbourhood, tries  to guess what Even takes notice of first, what he likes, what befuddles him. Not for the first time, he wishes he could see what Even sees, and think what Even thinks - he can’t begin to imagine how Even’s brain works in all its complexities and idiosyncrasies; there’s no shortage of surprises when it comes to Even, and it renders guessing his next step rather fruitless.

Regardless, Isak imagines this must be what contentedness feels like: wandering at a pace that is neither slow nor fast, the tale tell-brushes of curiosity and restlessness creeping through his bloodstream, his brain blissfully empty of any urgency except to continue feeling this way.

“What was the place called again? Where we just ate?” Even asks when they’ve found a spot on the Neukölln canal, past the skate park and the whistling drum of wheels against concrete, boards  hissing and breaking. Here remains only the soft lull of the lethargic tide, the distant chatter of those sitting likewise along the water’s edge, and Even’s deep voice beside his ear.

“Imren,” Isak says, and watches with a touch of pride as Even marks it on the map in his phone. “It’s the best kebab in the area - I think so at least. Neukölln is kind of known for the kebabs, and there are a lot of good ones, believe me - but this is my favourite, I think.”

“It was amazing,” Even agrees. “And so inexpensive. I’m in shock how cheap things are here. You’d never find that kind of quality at that price in Oslo, I’m afraid.”

“Mmm, no,” Isak agrees. “Still, nothing tastes like home like a Balkan kebab.”

Even turns to him, his cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth. He takes a drag and smiles at Isak, eyes turning soft.

Isak turns to him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” Even’s eyes become owlishly large, but his smile becomes larger still.

Isak pokes his side, feeling his own grin grow. Even’s mood is contagious, and moreover, there’s very little to be grumpy about right now. “You know what.”

“Oh, nothing,” Even shrugs now. Takes another drag, smoke filtering out of his mouth slowly. “I just like it when you call Oslo home.”

Isak looks back out on the water. “I mean, that’s what it is.”

“Yeah,” Even shifts, and their shoulders are touching. “But I still like hearing it. It makes me happy.” 

“….yeah. I guess,  uh...I don’t know. Sometimes all you need are some new memories to help replace the old ones.”

 “Or...making peace, with them. Old, and new,” Even suggests, and Isak nods. Yeah, that is also true. It’s not so much overcoming his previous feeling towards Oslo as he redefined what he expected of his city. Something about being able to recognise  his feelings on the topic are complicated, but not necessarily all negative; and moreover, he has a say in whether or not they stayed negative. This epiphany occurred to him back in July, whilst skyping Sabine over an issue he’s now forgotten but is probably written down somewhere. The realisation hit him mid-sentence like a punch to the gut:  both good and bad could exist within the same space; sometimes even in the same breath. And such was life to wrangle both.

“That’s true,” he agrees. “We should go back to the flat. Martin just texted me, he’s home, and he’s impatient to meet you.”

“Sounds good. Well,  I’m a little nervous to meet him.”

Isak almost scoffs; as if he could truly make a bad impression. 

“Don’t be. He’s already enamoured with the idea of you,” he tells him.

“That’s what makes me nervous,” but all the same, Even stands up and brushes himself off. In the mellowed gold of the nearby street lamp Even’s features become drastic in the shadow, and it reminds him of Gabriel in _chiaroscuro_. An angel in charades. 

All evening he’s managed to keep those kind of thoughts quiet. Already he knows  how much attention Even brings upon himself without realising: the playful posture of his lean, statuesque body, the ambiguity of his sexuality present in his mannerism and style and startling blue of his eyes hidden behind those glasses. It’s been but a few hours and Isak already has caught more than a few people staring.

Once upon a time, it would have driven him to the brink of insecure rage; Isak is aware of how possessive he used to be of Even when he was a teenager, and it’s a little embarrassing to remember now. He tries, with only a hint of desperation, to take it in stride, to take those openly flagrant gazes with a touch of fleeting pride: that’s his boyfriend they’re following with their eyes. And who is Even looking at all this time, unbothered by the effect he has on those around him? Isak doesn’t have to waste time wondering. He already knows. The evidence is everywhere; in everything Even does. 

Still, another voice supplies unhelpfully in his head. They haven’t even gone out yet. The true testament of his wary self-assurance is yet to come.

He leaves their empty bottles near the bins for someone to come collect, and before crossing the street, he turns to Even and holds out his hand. Even takes it.

  
-

 

LØRDAG 00:31

 

The first thing Isak registers when they arrive is _Blood Orange_ ’s new vinyl is making lazy spins on the turntable, the [same song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-DQf8RxeweM) playing for possibly the twentieth time in the last three days; the second is the overwhelming aroma of peanut sauce, warm and wafting from the kitchen, where Isak spots a tell-tale flash of an emerald robe. 

“Hello, we’ve arrived, you better not be naked!” he warns in German, and turns to Even, grinning a little. “Er, sorry. Just letting him know we’re here.”

“You speaking German,” Even says. “I didn’t expect you’d sound like that.”

“What’d you think I’d sound like?”

Even shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t really picture it, to be honest. I just knew you could.”

Before Isak can respond, Martin comes barrelling out of the kitchen, with some kind of plastic wrapped on his head. He looks torn between elated and annoyed, which usually means he didn’t expect them to return to early, never mind that he was hounding Isak to come back the entire walk home. His long silken robe is closed (thankfully) and he’s yielding a large wooden spoon when he gestures to the air in a wave of greeting.

“ _Bienvenue dans mon jardin secret!_ Welcome! Hello! So good to meet you, now!” Martin exclaims, and Isak has to smile at the earnest conviction in his tone as he addresses Even; his playfulness bleeds through his English, while much of his more salacious sarcasm falls wayside due to semantics or nuance. Secretly Isak thinks this isn’t necessarily a drawback.

“And you,” Even returns, gracious as ever, stepping forward at the same time as Martin does: they both go for the hug and Isak stands off to the side, a little tickled already.

“I’m Martin, and you’re Even, yes, I know already your name, Isak and I - we’ve talked, and I’ve heard very much about you, your art, your hair, you're so tall, bless you - and well, pictures do not do you justice. Not fully. Mon _chou_ , je pourrais te manger.”

“Okay, okay,” Isak says, know it’s entirely pointless, “We get it. And we’re not starting another name thing, Martin! No way. Mon chou is not an option.”

“Oh! I’m _Martin_ to you now?” Martin cuts back, and maybe Isak takes it back: clearly his sharp tongue isn’t as lost in translation as he thought. He looks to Even and smiles, “All my friends call me _Martini._ It’s because for one Halloween I went as a pair of fishnet legs in a Martini glass.”

“Impressive,” Even says with raised brows, “And incredibly original. Last year I went as Hunter S. Thompson's character in [Fear and Loathing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uOmtVFQ3WF8), which is far less creative. I had all the clothes. All I really needed was a cigarette holder and the glasses.”

Martin laughs, hang on Even’s shoulder, which does not go amiss by Isak. But he’s unable to join, too far inside his own head. He just watches them. And perhaps similar to how Even received Isak’s German, Isak adjusts to Even’s English: something crisp and more formal in his voice, his tone lighter and more careful as he enunciates. They both grew up learning it their entire lives, and Isak’s heard Even say countless things in English over time, be it reading something online or singing along to lyrics - but the idea of someone only knowing Even in English and speaking to him in nothing but - this never occurred to Isak.

“You know, just the word cigarette makes me want one. Come, come children, let’s go in the kitchen. I’m making peanut curry. Isak, are you hungry?”

“We just ate, like an hour ago,” Isak says; how curious it is to all be speaking a language none of them claim firsthand. He supposes many people do this everyday. “I took him to Imren.”

“Oh, that’s my Turkish seal of approval right there, yes,” a turn of his silky robe, and Martin leads their way into the cramped kitchen. Without further ado, Even sits in Martin’s chair at the kitchen table, while Isak assumes his spot on his little stack of crates by the window and Martin his usual post on his stool at the hob. He takes one slender cigarette out of the packet and lights it, the purple of the lighter matching his single purple thumbnail.

“Yeah,” Isak agrees distractedly, finding his tobacco and passing it to Even so he can roll first out of it. The window is already wide open, and the air holds little relief against the heat. “We walked around and ate. What have you been doing tonight?”

A spiral of smoke blows out of Martin’s lips. “Hah! You will not believe - who I saw, I saw Marco down near Hermannstraße and he literally looked so fucking good I almost forgot myself and went over to talk to him...”

“But?” Isak dutifully asks. He’s heard many of the sordid details of Martin’s on-again-off-again dalliances with Marco. And Étienne before him, and Samuel, the most pretentious bartender at [Kater](https://www.katerblau.de) \- and Isak’s sure there’s another one he’s forgotten.

“But _who_ do I see with him?” Martin demands of the both of them, eyes wide with shock, despite the fact that neither of them knows, and in Even’s case, can hardly begin to guess. Luckily Martin doesn’t need an actual answer. He smacks his hand on the counter, ash shaking loose from his cigarette and onto the counter. “I see Chiara with him! That fucking bitch, trying to steal my best friend!”

Isak fixes him with a look, “He can’t steal Chiara from you. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Of course he can’t! But what does Chiara think she’s doing fucking eating Risa with him, that is our chicken place, he is so - “

“- Who you were obsessed with last weekend at Cocktail D’Amour?” Isak interjects, and can’t help the giggle that escapes when Martin glares at him, face exaggerated in a pout. He turns to Even and sighs, as if to say, _what am I to do with him?_

“Do not remind me,” he says. Gives the pot on the stove a stir and ashes his smoke. Even is sitting with his leg crossed at the ankle, clearly enjoying every moment of the scene before him. Isak knows just from the look in his eye that he’s seeing a scene too, because he’s grown very quiet, no doubt trying to memorise the unfolding conversation as it bounces between them.

“But what were you doing around Hermannstraße anyway?” he presses on. “When did you go out?”

“Oh, Peter, Felix and I went to happy hour - you know which I mean, that one, a little ways down,” Martin flaps his hand, possibly struggling to conjure the word. Isak just nods. “Right, well. It was all fun until it wasn’t. Ugh. I swear, I see Chiara, she better tell me what he said.”

“How do you know he said something about you?” Isak frowns.

“Uh, because who else do they have in common besides moi? No one! Literally, they met through me at an after hours - “

“ And - happy hour starts at what time at that place?” Isak raises his eyebrows, and Martin narrows his eyes at him, his neck slinking low to regard him.

“What is your point, Isak?”

“Nothing,” he says with a shrug, his tone suggesting it is anything but. Parting a glance at Even, whose face is positively entertained. Isak just rolls his eyes. He blows a plume of smoke into Martin’s face smugly and brings his legs up to balance on the crate, arms coming to rest on top of his knees. In German, under his breath, “I slept in past five and looked like a fucking mess and my room is still a mess, you asshole - “

“Rude!” Martin gasps at him, throwing down a spoon in rebuttal. “I did try!”

“Did not,” Isak bites back. “Liar!”

“You’re full of shit,” Martin decidedly turns to face Even. “Don’t mind us, Isak is incapable to taking responsibility - “

“You wouldn’t know responsibility if it paraded around in front of you naked,” Isak dismisses. He looks at Even and says in Norwegian, “Every time Martin is caught out for having forgotten something he said he was going to do, he just denies that he had to do the thing in the first place.”

“Oh, like that doesn’t sound like someone I know - ,” Even mocks him, and Isak rolls his eyes, just as Martin chucks the dish towel at Isak this time with a little huff. Even straightens up a little. “So Isak tells me you have a our night out planned for tomorrow.”

He has to admire Even’s astuteness here. Within ten minutes of their meeting Even’s already found which buttons to push, and when to push them in order to reign control of the conversation or effectively change the subject with little stumbling in between. Isak’s yet to learn how to mask his own awkwardness in situations with new people.

“You are so fucking right sir!” Martin chirps, and then claps his hands together. “We are going out dancing tomorrow, at a party, a very good party at that, happens only once in a while - and we’re going with a friend of ours’ called Max - “

“Oh, no, Martini,” Isak groans, “This is why you wouldn’t tell me before! Our friend Max only goes to one club - “

Even looks between them, “And which club is this?”

“ _B.-_ ,” Isak and Martin say in unison, and Isak can't resist it now; he laugh a little, and Martin preens when he sees, wiggling his shoulders and finishing off with a small purr.

Isak throws the dishtowel back, “Come on, Martini, that’s too intense for his first time. He’s not been out in Berlin yet at all.”

This, as Isak expected, does not faze his flatmate for a moment. He blinks a couple times, lips pouted as if to convey that he doesn’t see a problem. In German he simpers, “All the better then. Really give our Even a full experience.”

“Our Even?” Isak grumbles  in German, reaching out and poking Martin’s thigh with his toe. “You better watch it now. You just met him like five seconds ago.”

“Ooh, excuse me, _your_ Even - ”

“I can’t understand what you’re saying but I know you’re talking about me,” Even interjects in English. He doesn’t look put off by it, however. In fact, he’s rolled another cigarette, poised daintily between two fingers over the ceramic ashtray on the table. “But please,” he gestures, his features all a light, “Continue.”

“No, we’re done,” Isak says. “Anyway, I suppose we don’t have any choice. I thought Sisyphos would have been a better option - ”

“ - except that it’s closed this weekend - ”

“But B.- is - ”

“ - a necessary experience if you’re lucky enough to get in,” Martin smiles. And Isak knows that this argument is over, at least for now. “But I know a few of the bouncers, and it won’t be problem. We’re going tonight through Sunday. And Alix is on at two, so we have to be in before that.”

“Alix?” Even asks.

“A DJ friend of Martin’s,” Isak informs him. “Who are we going with anyhow, I wanna know now, don’t just spring anyone you - ”

“Relax. I promise, there will be no _springing_ of any kind, ma cher,” Martin is exasperated already by Isak’s lack of enthusiasm, but by now it’s a familiar, playful back and forth; Isak knows Martin already knows that Isak, for all his reluctance, is going to be there. “It’s Felix, Peter, Yanny, Michel maybe - and then of course Max, and Chiara if she knows what’s good for her.”

Isak nods. It’s the better part of Martin’s friend group, and he imagines Even will like them. “That’s fine, then.” As if his opinion had any weight to sway Martin otherwise.

It’s peculiar, this feeling, how calm and delighted he is at the same time, witnessing Even sit in his crowded kitchen, doing something as mundane as eating a late dinner and smoking a cigarette at the table; something Isak has done with Martin countless times since they started living together, and he looks down at his knees to hide his smile, unable to explain it.

Now, Martin is fluffing the rice with a fork, his rice cooker whisking as he yanks the cord from it’s plug with great force. Without asking either of them, he starts to dish out three plates, spooning out vegetables and chicken and dribbling a thick orange curry on top. He passes one to Even, who receives it graciously, nevermind that he’s probably not very hungry. And to Isak, who takes it as he always does, without complaint.

“Guten Appetit!” Martin sits in the corner seat, and ends up colliding with the fruit basket, much to Isak’s private satisfaction - a classic _Schadenfreude_ moment he might have called out had Even not been sitting there. Of course, the peanut curry is delicious, and while Even and Martin discuss Even’s upcoming stay in Berlin he manages to eat without interrupting.

Instead he listens to Even explain his trip to Berlin; of course Isak has already explained to him, before, in bits and pieces like he tends to default to when he’s a little apprehensive. But when Even lays it out in his own way, it sounds nothing short of serendipitous: the woman who ran Chateau Neuf had seen his _Autobiography of Red_ series and set him up with a contact in Berlin who was looking for a talent anyway. Something about bringing Even to the city for a week to ‘help execute a vision.’ Whatever that meant: Even _kind of_ explained to Isak, all one excited rush and nearly twelve text messages in a row. _I can’t say much about the nature of the project but I’m coming to Berlin. Finally._

And here he is. Sitting in the kitchen with them.

“And so who can see this art? Where is it? A gallery, museum, festival, open space - ” Martin is clearly interested, his hands folded together over his finished meal.

Even hesitates. “It’s not….the release is to be announced, basically. But I’m sure...a response will build to it.”

“I see,” Martin narrows his eyes, and he’s smiling. “Well. Sounds mysterious. I wanna know all the secrets now.”

“Soon it’ll be obvious,” Even just says. Then he changes the topic. But Isak sits there and ruminates about what it could be. A part of him fears, distantly, at the prospect of _his_ portraits just hanging somewhere in the city, where he could stumble upon them by accident. Even told him: those portraits are for me and you, no one else. And Isak believes him, he does. These thoughts he chalks up to largely his self-absorbed anxiety, and he tells himself this every time the thought occurs.

He’s aloof on details - but Even tends to lean towards a great elusiveness and charming aloofness, which benefits him when he so chooses; this is an essence which Isak’s become accustomed to over the years. At first it hit him like a ton of bricks, how bright Even appeared from afar. How loftily he’s able to glide through conversation, be it engaging, or sentimental, or ignited with humour. Isak envies him his gift of charisma. Isak envies his luminosity. And he would envy a lot more, if he didn’t know the cost it tolls on Even to shine the way he does.

But he genuinely is at a loss for what the project could be; never-mind it’s been years Isak saw anything but the tail end of Even’s process. He’s only seen a handful of pieces since before they broke up the first time, and most of them are renderings of himself. At the centre of his vulnerability; where it is both sharply painful and too tender, he’ll never get used to being someone’s muse, even if that someone is Even. Perhaps especially because it is Even. It strikes him every time.

Isak tunes in again: now they’re discussing the art in the living room, and just as Even’s about to ask, “By the way, I love the quartet hanging above the mirror - “

“It’s nearly one, you guys. We should smoke now,” Isak interrupts, shooting Martin a heavy glance that he hopes communicate what he effectively feels. Martin isn’t responding the way he wants, so Isak chooses a new tactic. He murmurs in German, “I’m falling asleep over there and I don’t want him to see, can we go to the sofa - ?”

Martin just nods, already ashing his cigarette, as if Isak’s exhaustion triggers a set of responses otherwise not deemed necessary. Isak almost feels guilty about it, but he really is finding he’s blinking for longer stretches and it’s embarrassing to be found nodding off on a stack of fucking crates.

He says to Even in English, “Martin has the softest hash you’ll ever try. Seriously. And we just got our Netflix account back.”

“And it's my turn to pick tonight!” Martin nods, “But it's true. Soft as _caca de petite rat_. It’s Afghan, which can be more difficult to find than Moroccan depending on where you go, blah blah blah….”

“And it’s smell?” is Even’s voice is hopeful and full of laughter, and when he turns around to look at Isak his eyes are smiling, lit up in the orange tinted kitchen like crescent moons. “Sweet like cinnamon, I hope.”

“Sweet as brown sugar, baby,” Martin shimmies his shoulder, and then gives Isak a look. In German he says, “Cinna - whatever the hell?”

Isak frowns for a second, at a lost. Then he realises. “ _Zimt,_ you know that,” he answers, and then switches back to English, “Even’s got origami joint rolling skills. Martini, let him roll it for us. You won’t regret it.”

“Oh, I already know I won’t regret it,” Martin rinses everything before turning away from the mess, and with a snide little tilt of his head and a smile meant only for Isak, he adds quietly in German, “With those hands and those long fingers, _honey_.”

Isak only frowns at him. All goes quiet suddenly as Even finishes the rest of his dinner with a semi-obscene fork licking, looking up with big eyes to catch the pair of them just staring back at him. Isak busies himself with rolling his tobacco pouch up, and Martin spins around to face the dishes nonsensically, touching his plastic wrapped head absentmindedly. He curses, “I forgot to take the hair dye out! Fuck! Isak, you go get my [Mucha](https://designgraphica.com/french-tin-signs/french-tin-signs-french-metal-sign-biere-de-la-meuse-by-mucha-12x16/) tin, it’s next to my bed, and I’ll join you in a second - shit - I was in the middle of giving myself an update and completely got sidetracked by making dinner.”

“Thank you for that, by the way. You’re an amazing cook,” Even compliments, dotting his mouth with a napkin. Isak always wants to laugh at how complaisant Even is being right now - so fucking lovely it's nearly blinding to anyone who doesn't know him - but Martin preens, as one should expect him to. Strategic charming is a game the both of them excel at; Isak isn’t exactly surprised. Even knows how to turn it on when he wants and make it look effortless. Martin claps his hands together, sending Isak a look over the top of Even’s head that says: I think I love him.

Yeah, Isak looks back. You and me both.

 

-

 

LØRDAG 03:47

 

“So,” in the total darkness of Isak’s room, they lie intertwined just under a single stream of moonlight, and it creates block like patterns on the curve of Even’s torso where he sprawls. It also effectively casts a shadow blanketing on all the messes on Isak’s floor. “What do you think?”

They’re both quite stoned and sleepy; Isak fell asleep early on and missed most of [Paris is Burning](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=78TAbjx43rk). No one woke him back up until long after it was over and they’d already moved on to smoking another joint and discussing different aspects of the film. He watched them in the low lamplight, swaddled in a duvet, dazed with the heat of his nap, head resting on the low end of the sofa. All felt peaceful, watching Even and Martin, Even’s long legs folded up underneath him and serving as arm rests.

“I love it already,” Even’s voice is earnest, and he feels his stomach flip at the sound of it. Isak rolls over on his side to face him. “I mean, this city is so unique. And seeing now where you live, and seeing where you go...and Martin. Wow, I mean, you told me about him. But.”

“In a good way?”

“He’s amazing,” Even says, and Isak smiles because he anticipated this. “Did he grow up here in Berlin, or in Switzerland, or - ?”

“Yeah, here in Berlin. I think in Kreuzberg. His father runs a couple of shops in that area.”

“I wondered,” Even concedes. “Is he close with his family?”

“Yes, and no,” Isak pauses, considering, “His mother just visited this summer, they’re pretty close. His father remarried, I think a while ago, and he’s gotten more religious since, maybe cause of his wife, or maybe he’s getting older, I don’t know.”

“Ah,” Even nods, “And is he religious? Martin, I mean?”

“Martin feels about religion similarly to me,” he sighs, “So, it’s complicated.”

“Mmm,” now Even’s pressing his thumb in the concave of Isak’s hip, against the bone there. He imagines the skin going white temporarily under the pressure. “Well, he’s very entertaining. Just as funny as you said he was. And strangely reminiscent of a chirpy little bird, but one with like a brilliant blue feather coat or something.”

Isak imagines Even drawing Martin as such a bird. He pictures putting the comic up on the fridge.

“...and - the art! He’s got amazing taste, and I already told you - this apartment. Well. Obviously cool.”

Isak burrows into his sheets, rolling his neck along the pillow. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “Yeah, he’s good.”

Even raises an eyebrow, “And he loves you.”

“Sure, sure.”

“No, really,” Even insists, “Genuinely I think so. When you fell asleep in the couch - which, for shame, Isak, you only lasted fifteen minutes - he got up and got a quilt and showed me how to rolls your neck back when you do this. Which makes it sounds like it happens a lot.”

Isak’s cheeks flush, and he burns, despite the knowledge that Even can’t see him.

“It was caring,” Even says, running his hand along the side of Isak’s face, down his neck and spreading his fingers along the finer tenements of Isak’s clavicle. “I probably could like him just for that reason alone.”

“Martin has a tendency to overshare, and make things more - You’re not, like - ”

“Jealous?” Even raises an eyebrow. Shakes his head. He’s taken off his glasses earlier in the evening, and now he looks just like the boy Isak knows, and has known, for nearly a quarter of his life now. “No, not jealous. Well, not in the way you’d think.”

“Oh?” Isak leans over and kisses the underside of Even’s chin. Already he smells like their apartment; like nicotine and curry and underneath, the remnants of the soap from the shower. “Tell me. In what way?”

“Well,” he purses his lips, no doubt organising his thoughts. “Well, for instance. In the bathroom, you have one hamper.”

A surprised laugh comes out of Isak’s mouth. “Okay…”

“ - it’s like, I don’t know. I guess you do all your laundry probably together….I mean, why wouldn’t you,” he meanders around his point.

“But it ..I mean, you noticed it…” he presses. “Because?”

“Jealousy is the wrong word. It’s more like I see flashes of what could have been, if I came when I was supposed to. And who knows, maybe it would look different, or maybe ...this would have been our life. And I knew this might make me sad before I came….so regardless, I guess, it’s part of the whole trip. Because I can’t be here and not have it remind me that ... I wasn’t here, to begin with.”

Even exhales, and he shifts slightly to meet Isak’s gaze. “And I wish I’d been.”

It’s so naked an admission, vulnerable and tender in a combination that it holds the power to devastate him. But he doesn’t want to dwell on that now. Not when Even is laid beside him, skin pebbling in the wake of Isak’s hands. Not when they have so little time.

“But you’re here now,” Isak reminds him. He knows how these thoughts frequent and plague the soft underbelly regarding their decision to get back together, and that, for all that is out of his control, Even wears guilt like last season’s comeback trend; never quite far behind wherever he turns. Nevertheless, Isak finds it does neither of them any good to dwell of the could-have-beens or what-ifs; he spent too much of his time doing so in Berlin already. “That’s all that matters to me. Not the past.”

It takes him a long, drawn out moment to answer, but when he does, he’s agreeing with Isak. “I know,” he whispers now, voice low in his throat. He palms the back of Isak’s neck, pressing their noses together. “You’re better than me.”

“No,” Isak disagrees. “We’re better together.”

He rolls on top, straddling Even’s thighs, pressing his hands into the vee of his hips and handling his dick gently until it starts to thicken in his hand; Even’s hands reach around to squeeze his bum, kneading the muscle and pressing up into Isak’s grip. Stroke after measured stroke, Isak leaves Even no choice but to let himself come undone, until his stomach is coated in Even; until he’s so close to the edge of his own orgasm it only takes one slick hand to bring him off. Just like that, little stars shooting up into his lungs and lodging in the soft tissue there.

 

-

 

LØRDAG 22:41

 

Isak’s half way through shampooing his hair when the bathroom door is wedged open and in comes a disruptive, but familiar cacophony of noise, for which only Martin could be the culprit for. Isak rolls his eyes to himself, taking in a big gulp of steamy plant-purified air

“This is occupied,” Isak calls out, pressing his face up against the water, slightly too hot to be comfortable. His body feels sore like he’s just finished a workout, which he hasn’t - unless one considers a four hour afternoon nap a workout, which most don’t. He’s still washing the remaining sleep from the crevices of his eyes.

“I’ve just got to get my hair stuff, do my eyebrows and somehow find that lilac glitter pen Felix lent to me like fifty years ago,” Martin answers, and a moment later he’s poked his head through the curtain, raising his eyebrows at Isak. “That’s a lovely little shampoo-shark fin you have going on, ma cher.”

Isak just rolls his eyes and flicks soap suds at Martin. “Excuse me! Some privacy!”

“Please,” Martin scoffs, lingering for a moment and then disappearing again. Isak rinses his hair one final time before turning off the taps, knowing he should condition and forgoing it anyway; instead he grabs the nearest robe off the peg near the wall and wraps it around himself, stepping carefully out of the high-walled tub and dripping all over the sallow green tile. He moves the fern back in it’s rightful place and turns to Martin.

“What are you doing?” Isak asks, standing next to him front of the mirror. Martin dyed the top half of his hair a bright platinum blonde, leaving the shaved sides still his much darker natural colour to contrast it; Martin has a talent for expressing himself in a way many people can’t really pull off, be it the dangling earring from one ear and or his heavy, expressive brow running parallel along the lines of his pronounced cheekbones. The capaciousness of his attitude helps carry the weight of his intensity, be it his appearance or personality.

“I’m getting ready for tonight, obviously,” Martin answers him, taking his kabuki brush and fluffing the tip of Isak’s nose just to be cute. “What are you doing? Where’s Even? Is he naked in there too?”

“That would be your dream, wouldn’t it?”

“Ooh, sassy boy,” Martin hisses, raising an eyebrow at him. “No need to get the claws out, babe.”

“No claws,” he shrugs flippantly, reaching over Martin’s shoulder as they crowd in front of the mirror and grabbing his moisturiser. “Though I could say the same for you, _babe_.”

“No claws,” as if to show for it, Martin lifts both his hands in surrender. “As if I would. He’s obviously the _amour de votre vie_ , for Christ’s sake.”

Isak doesn’t need him to translate that, Martin says it just about everything: _grapefruit are the love of my life. This new fringe shawl is the love of my life. Ugh, Sissy_ was _the love of my life until she puked on my go-go boots_ \- and yet the his tone conveys an underlying question.

“True,” Isak confirms, watching how his answer lands. But Martin just moves onto brushing his eyebrows and filling them in, elongating the already dramatic line of his eyebrow. Every time he does this Isak thinks of Nicole Kidman’s eyebrows in Moulin Rouge, something he told Martin one of the first times they met and which helped solidify their burgeoning friendship. Thank God for Baz Luhrmann.

He continues, “No, Even is with uh - he’s working at the studio, I think until eleven or twelve. Then he’s coming back here.”

“Wow, working late into the night,” Martin is rifling through a box full of different pencils before selecting another dark brown one. “He’s already an artist and hasn’t uni finished yet. God, I’m almost sick with jealousy.”

Isak wants to say that he too finds it a little peculiar to be working this late too - on a Saturday, no less, but he chooses not to voice these concerns to Martin, who made serve to make him more paranoid about it if they spend too much time dwelling over what Even’s project pertains. Instead he just asks, “When is everyone coming over?”

“Not sure, an hour or so? I need to finish getting ready and then you - so Peter and Felix around midnight, then Yanny and Michel whenever they fucking show up. I think Max comes near one, he’s picking up some G - “

“Oh, I want to talk to you about that,” Isak grabs Martin’s arm to capture his full attention. They stare at each other in the mirror; Isak’s hair dripping onto his naked chest left exposed by his robe, Martin’s kohl pencil poised over one half-drawn eyebrow.

“What?”

“Don’t - “ Isak hesitates. “Don’t tell Even about the Juice. I mean it, like I haven’t told him about it, and I don’t want to right before we go out - so please. Just. Like. Talk about it in German, but don’t start showing off and slip that’s what you’re taking.”

“Ugh, I don’t _show_ off - “ Martin sounds scandalised, but Isak can tell he’s actually listening to him. He doesn’t let go of his arm yet. “Fine. I promise. But does this mean you haven’t mentioned to him what happened last March - “

“No, no,” Isak cuts him off, stomach flipping. “Let’s not go there now. If you want me to go out, then we won’t talk about that now.”

“Ma cher,” Martin scolds him quietly. “It doesn’t do you any good if you don’t talk about shit.”

“So you’ve said,” Isak tries to brave an eye roll; he lets go of Martin’s arm now. “Anyway. If Even says no the drugs you offer - you can’t be offended. Or give him shit. Literally. There are very good reasons for him to say no, and before you ask, they’re none of your business, so let me just say, there will be an actual issue if I hear you’re giving him grief. He’s not from here, he’s new to this, I don’t want you - ”

“Alright, alright,” Martin huffs again. “God, _un tel ravageur._ So many fucking rules. Now would you relax and have some fun? We’re going out! Your _l’amour_ is here. What could go wrong?”

Anxiety tells him that everything could go wrong. Maybe the best case is it’s awkward. Even doesn’t take to their friend group; no one speaks English to him and he feelings adrift or ousted; he’s horrified by the lifestyle found within the walls of B.-; someone offers Even drugs and he takes them without his realisation; Isak gets too fucked up and the night tailspins of out control; the list goes on. He sighs loudly, inching around Martin and slinking out of the bathroom.

Inside his room, he shuts the door behind him and surveys the half-assed job he did tidying earlier when they woke up. A particularly loud neighbour a couple flights down had started blasting music around nine in the morning, loud enough so knew he wouldn’t be able to return to sleep. Even fared better, and slept through it, his expression lax and begging an innocent sweetness where his lips parted and his little snores escaped through. So Isak, not wanting to disturb him, and not wanting to lie around staring at his face longer than he had already, ate breakfast with Martin and followed him to the Eurogida near the S-Bahn to buy food for the weekend; holding up different aubergines and pomegranates and checking for ripeness while Martin stockpiled different spices for curries and bags of fresh lavash flatbreads.

When they returned, Even was awake and freshly showered; wearing the softest looking white shirt, loose around the collar and rolled up to the elbows,  paired with relaxed dark linen shorts that showed off the cords of sinewy thigh muscle. He was sitting on their balcony in Martin’s wicker chair, smoking a cigarette, and staring out into the city, his feet perched on the railing just so created the illusion his legs extended on forever. A spot Isak had presumed so many times before. He wondered for a moment if he should disturb him; he could be meditating. But a moment passes and Even turns to catch his eye. Smiles a small knowing smile, like he somehow knew Isak stood there a while.

“There’s your golden boy,” Martin muttered as he bypassed him into the kitchen. “Maybe take a picture darling, it’ll last you longer!”

Isak ignored him and instead went out to find out how Even slept. Even had told him he’d slept brilliantly, that he hadn’t so much as dreamt once. Isak wondered, very quietly to himself, what it was like to sleep unfettered by dreaming.

He still wonders it now. In Oslo, where the summer felt endless at first, and Even’s presence was a green light across the Akerselva river, beckoning him, wrapping him up in a glowing embrace; where he could almost pretend, for a moment, that everything was okay. This fallacy soon caught up with him, mere weeks after arriving, when Even caught him awake in the wee hours of the morning; when Even caught him startled nearly into a fit of tears by a locked closet door; when Even caught him - and held him with his hands, felt the bones in his back, and felt again the prevailing messes in his brain, rattling around like old bones in a metal box.

He tried to talk about it a few times. Or at least explain a little.  He owed Even as much. But it was hard. He felt that if he said too much, it may ruin their chance at a lovely summer. He wanted it to be about the summer, the sweltering, lively city, the way Even’s blue eyes caught the light and looked like little ripples of shimmering water. He wanted to be daring, wonderful, and _brave_ -

“Ugh,” Isak shakes his train of thoughts, instead gathering up the rest of his laundry and heading back to the bathroom. Martin raises an eyebrow at him through the mirror when Isak, unnecessarily surly, asks, “Since when did we only have one hamper? It’s already full and I’ve barely put anything in it.”

“Okay, _Stinkstiefel,_ so I have not done laundry in a while, but you _just_ got back - ”

“ - like two weeks ago, Martini,” Isak frowns, pushing down the rest of the clothes. “And I’m not being grouchy.”

“You’re wearing your grouchy eyebrows,” he pouts and Isak relaxes his face immediately, which just proves Martin’s point. Isak tries to lessen this strange well of stress building up inside of him. The conversation the other night niggled in his brain; he doesn’t remember if they’ve always had one hamper or two, but now it sat under the sink, noticeable and afresh with new symbolism.

“Right. It’s nearly eleven. I’m going to get dressed, and then if you don’t mind…” he trails off. Martin meets his gaze through the mirror again, and smiles, and Isak smiles back, blowing the small wet fringes of hair off his forehead.

“I’ll be there in a second.”

His bedroom is slightly different from the rest of the apartment, given that he’s in primary control of decoration, with only a fraction of the effort behind it. There are four mauve coloured walls, faded and worn in places where the brick shows through. A window sharing the same view as their balcony with a double bed underneath it, a narrow bedside table outfitted by some dirty mugs and a lamp; two more shelves filled with books and a large wardrobe opposite it. The only art Isak has contributed is a poster he has is a copy of John Paul Sartre’s [Les Mouches](https://www.galerie123.com/media/ai/u/les-mouches-jean-paul-sartre-41494-les-mouches-vintage-poster.jpg.960x0_q85_upscale.jpg) _,_ which he brought back with him from Oslo this summer. Besides the lamp, the only other source of light is a lazy string of fairy lights taped up above his bed. They’re a sorry excuse for mood lighting but Isak hadn’t really cared then and he doesn’t now. Compared to Martin’s room, his is barren, but he’s at a loss for what else he could put in here that doesn’t seem unfaithful to who he is. He likes it containing only what he needs and nothing else.

Above his bed, where the sunlight catches in a diagonal angle just before sunset, are the ten postcards Even sent; at this point Isak has read them all more than once, and they are tacked, carefully, in their corners. One of these days he wants to frame them all, or make copies of them and hide away the originals; somehow he needs to make them immortal or his obsession over them will never wane. Otherwise they too will fade with age and sun exposure and live constantly risk of being ruined or lost.

He strips, his skin now dry and warm against the trapped heat gathered in his room. Naked he crosses the room and wrenches the window open, before turning around to find some underwear.

Of course  - just the elastic waistband slap against his hips, Martin barges in, holding a hairdryer and pointing it at Isak like it’s a weapon. “You, sit. We need to get to it before your hair develops its own agenda.”

Isak just rolls his eyes and doesn’t bother to argue, knowing it’s fruitless: Martin is just talking shit anyway. Instead he sits on the end of his bed, close enough to the mirror hanging from wardrobe and the wall outlets, allowing Martin to tilt his chin up and to the side, angling him just so, taking in the state of Isak’s hair, running his fingers through the fringe on his forehead.

“Not too big tonight,” Isak murmurs, “Just like - you know - “

“Yes, darling,” Martin chides, “I know. You think I’m new around here?”

Martin starts in with his roller brush and blow dries Isak’s hair to remain flat and neat against his head. His hair grew rapidly over the summer - so quickly, that the curls became unruly and he resorted to wearing hats again to keep it tame. When he came back to Berlin, their friend Peter offered to cut his hair for free, and then - at the last moment (though it felt decidedly planned, Isak thinks now) he offered to add in some highlights too. At first Isak had said no, don’t bother - but Peter argued it was practice for his upcoming practical at the beauty school, and Isak hadn’t the heart to say no. Of course, Martin was present, all the while encouraging the peer pressure, and then seized the opportunity to give Isak a blow out - or insisted, actually -  and Isak balked. What the actual fuck was a blowout?

Isak misunderstood at first because in German there are multiple words, some of which also takes on other definitions, like _guzzling,_ which sounded horrifying, or blowjob which Isak thought - well, Isak thought Martin was being _Martin_ about shit, but, as it turns out it just meant using the hairdryer and a brush. These mishaps happen when one is intermixing three or four languages at once.

“You really pull off these highlights,” Martin murmurs, “It’s what inspired me to go blonde, actually. I felt left out. I wanted to be the Tony Curtis to your Jackie Lemmon - ”

“Are they on Drag Race too?”

“Ugh, no, honey, first of all those are terrible drag names, and secondly they’re from [Some Like It Hot](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rI_lUHOCcbc) - you know what, we’ll just add it to the list.”

“Between you and Even, I’ll be watching films every day for the rest of my life,” Isak bemoaned, “I don’t want you to get an even bigger head, _but_ he told me he already likes you.”

“Oh, he did, did he,” Martin hums. The hair dryer shuts off, and in the reflection of the mirror behind Martin, Isak can see his hair sitting perfectly on his head, just a few strands falling into his face. Honestly, he can hardly tell the difference, except that it does look shiny and there are no little hairs around his ears that refuse to lay flat.

“Yep, so don’t ruin that impression.”

“Please, if he didn’t dislike me from the beginning he won’t start now,” he scoffs. Isak doesn’t answer him; he knows Martin is right - and anyway, he’s already scrolling through his phone to find a [song to put on](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E_ptaXmhsLw), reaching lazily for Isak’s aux cord. “Besides, I like Even back just as much. _Charmant Garçon_. And you know I don’t say that about just whoever the fuck. Not everyone is so deserving of you, ma cher. I’ve said it a thousand times.”

Isak doesn’t respond to that either, because already he sees the line Martin is toeing and he doesn’t want to go there. Instead he wedges open his sticky wardrobe door to find something to wear. “I’m going for black t shirt, black shorts - what are you gonna - ?”

“I’ve got a situation going,” he raises his eyebrows, shrugging and slouching down on Isak’s bed. He pulls his make up back onto his lap. “There will be mesh and leather, that’s all I can say. Now come, let me rouge you.”

“Okay, but - “

“Isak,” Martin sharply interrupts him. “You always say, ‘not too much, not too this, not too’ - as if I don’t know, ma cher, how you fucking like to look? Now, stop insulting me and come sit.”

He does as he’s told, perching on the bed again and tilting his head up. The song changes, and they both sing a long a little - Martin doing a little twirl here and there - Isak can’t help but smile, his energy is infectious, and he sits patiently, letting Martin add a little blush and a little glitter, and he remains quiet, a tranquillity seeping in, and he allows himself to like it, how delicate it all is, the process, how gentle it makes him feel -

“Oh, hello,” a voice by the door, “Have I interrupted something?”

Even is smiling, and that’s the thing Isak notices; he smiles back. Martin looks behind him and pops his hip out, giving a look Isak can only imagine from this angle; as the music picks up he turns to Even with arms out, and swings him around in a clumsy tango, before Even drops down beside Isak on the bed, laughing.  

“Not at all,” Martin says, shaking his brush at Even, “So happy you’re back. But how the hell did you get in?”

“I scaled the balcony,” Even intones seriously, and Isak can’t help it, he snickers.

“I gave him my keys,” he says. “How was your day?”

“Perfect, actually,” Even beams, “But I’m covered in paint. I should go shower before we go out.”

“If you kept it, it’d still be a look,” Martin says, noting the blue paint running down Even’s arms in tiny rivers (it beckons a sigh of relief in Isak. No red, at least not yet). “Anyway. We were just getting ready! The boys will be over soon, and you can meet them all. Isak’s done, but I need to get dressed and get drinks started - oh, would you like some glitter as well?”

“Of course,” Even makes it so easy, his body language all relaxed and languid, as he spreads out on the duvet. “I like this song you’re playing.”

“Sure, mister, that’s what you say, but I’ll have you know there is absolutely no kink shaming in this house!” Martin shouts playfully, and Isak just laughs and presses his foot into his kneecap in rebuttal. Even looks up and closes his eyes, the elongation of his neck a single devastating line, and Martin dots two neat little blots of glitter and dusting them out along his cheekbones, wearing a face of imminent satisfaction. Never mind he’ll shower and it will run off; Isak is enjoying the pearclesent effect of Even’s already dramatic bone structure.

“Naturally. You guys were discussing kinks?”

“What he means is, we listen to whatever music puts us in the mood before going on,” Isak explains. “Sometimes people can be a little - er, exclusive about their taste in music. Like if you don’t listen to hardcore industrial techno all the time, you’re not really in the scene or whatever.”

Martin rolls up his kit, hair dryer tucked under his arm with the cord trailing chaotically behind him. He turns to give them both a conspiring look, a single blonde curl falling dramatically in his eye. Martin always seems to be posing instead of standing, his movements affected with a certain form of a glamour indiscernible as natural or put upon - perhaps instead a mixture of both. “Give me fifteen to put together my look and then we’ll have drinks, the boys will be here, and we need to get a move on, it’s nearly midnight already. And _you_ \- pretty boy, if you’d like to shower, the toilet is all yours.”

“Thanks very much,” Even hums, before rolling his head to take in Isak’s clothes and his hair and his now very rosy cheeks with a little smile once Martin has left them. “You look cool.”

Isak feigns an annoyed frown, he feels acutely aware of how he looks now, in his black shorts and his tight t shirt, his shiny blonde hair styled so pristine and perfect on his head - he feels - what’s the word? Pretty. Or conflicted. Conflicted because he likes it, how he looks, and how he feels looking at himself; conflicted over the sheer flamboyance of it, a gruff voice in his head saying how unnecessary it all his, to put this shit on his face - that he would have been just fine going out with his normal hair and his pale cheeks and -

“You don’t usually think I look cool?” he teases.

Even scooches over until they’re sitting hip to hip, knee to knee, hand coming up to brush a few pieces of hair back against Isak’s forehead, his touch creating a current underneath his skin. His voice turns soft and muted, now that they’re so close to each other. “No, of course I do. But right now you look...beautiful. Really beautiful. And cool. So.”

A real blush rising to match the pink already on his cheeks; Isak looks away from the intensity of Even’s gaze, the sincerity it holds, his ability display this truth without fear. God, Isak loves him. “Well...thank you.”

Even spares a glance at the door, cocking an eyebrow. A sly smirk creeps up on his face. “How long do you think we have before he’s finished and we’re needed in the living room?”

He considers it. “Maybe fifteen, twenty minutes. But he doesn’t knock, so if you’re thinking what I think you are - ”

But Even’s already looming over Isak, cupping his face and kissing him breathless, until all his thoughts spiral into little clouds of dust and glitter in his brain. Even smears his thumb against the wetness of Isak’s bottom lip, looking hungry and satisfied with the apparent mess he’s already made of Isak; how one kiss serves to undo his integrity entirely.

“Fifteen minutes is enough to do what I wanna do to you,” his voice low in Isak’s ear as they tumble back on his bed, Even yanking his shorts down effectively, coming back up only to kiss him again; searing, white hot; and Isak reaches up into it, helpless. “Besides, this will teach him to knock, maybe.”

Isak doesn’t really think so - but then a second later, Even’s mouth like a wet hot vacuum around his dick, Isak forgets he cares at all.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Berlin, as I have said, is my city, where I live and love and dwell and dream. So you'll find ample references, including a couple scenes taking place in a very special and favourite club of mine, which I did not name in full, but if you can guess it, you get all the stars <3 
> 
> Some French:  
> Bienvenue dans mon jardin secret - welcome to my secret garden  
> je pourrais te manger - i could eat you  
> Mon chou - this is like my sweetie, but literally translates to 'my cabbage'  
> un tel ravageur - you are a pest  
> Charmant Garçon - charming boy  
> amour de votre vie - love of your life 
> 
> The only thing I will implore you to look up on google translate is "caca de petite rat" in the proper french pronunciation when the time comes, because it is fucking hilarious. 
> 
> With regards to the drug use...this is part of Berlin culture clubbing here - and for better or worse, I wrote that into the material of this story. In fact, I actually toned it down because I felt it didn't serve the story to be writing about vagrant hedonistic drug fiends, of which Berlin is a magnet for (or some say, breed this behaviour), though this can be very entertaining for me in RL. Many other stories for many other times. The drug in question that is referenced in the bathroom scene is GHB, a highly taboo drug even amongst 'common' party goers and one that is very popular in specific circles, many of them in the gay clubbing scenes - and dangerous, if you overdose (which is quite easy to do).
> 
> Some German  
> Schadenfreude (my favorite word) - the joy one takes from someone's pain/bad luck  
> Stinkstiefel - this is literally Stinkyboot, but translate more like to 'grumpy pants'


	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also known as the longest Sunday ever. Here's the second chapter posted now, unbeta'd (I kept changing SO MANY things it's embarrassing) so heed that warning. The last chapter is written - it just needs to be edited, but I just moved again and things are all up in the air. So as soon as I can edit it (this week!) it will be posted.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and I hope everyone continues to enjoy the last part of this series. This chapter, like all other chapters, is dedicated to Heidi, my lovely MT agent who roots for me every step of the way. You're a star, lovely. 
> 
> Warnings include some drug use. See last note for more details. Please note that music listed for the B.- scenes would NOT be the music actually played at this club, which is a whole other level, but I will link some examples for anyone who is curious. 
> 
> Easter Eggs - Donna Tartt & Kurt Vonnegut. Stars if you find them!
> 
> If you're interested in Heidegger (he was problematic and brilliant - sigh) I recommend Steven West's podcast Philosophise This! which you can find on Apple podcasts or Spotify, and look up his episodes on Heidegger (and all his other ones, I'm obsessed)

[SØNDAG 00:22](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fHGsYv1QVbY)

The boys arrive just after midnight, and the taste of Isak’s last Futschi still burns a little where Martin poured in way too much Korn. First arrival is Yanny, Martin's previous roommate before Isak, naturally making himself right home on their sofa with a slew of different purple glitter sticks, Martin already talking a mile a minute that he can’t find that random fucking lilac pen from last summer - and Isak just rolls a cigarette, and zones out. He can hear the shower running, imagines Even in there. It sends a small thrill down his lower abdomen. There’s no need to be nervous, he reminds himself.

His thighs are still tingling a little from the ferocity of his orgasm earlier - Even kissing down his thighs, licking up his shaft, his balls, and finally the head of his dick - pausing to tantalise and ramp up Isak’s anxiety about the fact that his door wasn't locked and they could be walked in on at any second. When Even made full use of his mouth, Isak was trying not to fall totally apart. Those lips wrapped around his dick is an image which always stirs a physical reaction in him, let alone when it’s happening _to_ him, and then Even reached up and cupped his balls, just like Isak likes, and it was only a few minutes of his before Isak was coming right on his tongue.

Guess I will need a shower, after all, Even joked, wiping his mouth and pulling Isak’s shorts back up with a slap of his waistband. Keep those, he said, they look so fucking good on you.

By the time Felix and Peter arrive, Martin is already cutting lines on his gold mirror, holding court in the kitchen, where they can smoke and have a few beers, and the combined energy and laughter sends Isak straight into the throes of the excitement which comes along with a night out, the best kind, where everyone likes each other and the collective energy for the impending evening begins to feel downright intoxicating. Of course, the drugs help some. As do the drinks.

Even is the last to arrive in the kitchen, because of course he is. Isak notices him first, from the angle he’s sitting at under the window. He’s wearing a dark patterned shirt half unbuttoned and dark tailored trousers, a combination that would look much too formal on Isak, like he was trying to be some - he doesn’t know - some indie fuckboy, probably. But draped on Even’s tall, wiry frame and partnered with his blonde hair, thrown back in a tousled quiff, only illuminates what is so alluring about him. He looks so different, and at the same time, completely in place. Isak knows he’s biased, but regardless. No one can deny the sheer attraction he emanates, wafting around like fucking pheromones; eyes so big and blue, porcelain skin curving over a jawline so severe, his collarbone on display for everyone to dip their fingers into.

“Hello,” he waves politely at the door, and Martin twirls around, a bubble of laughter breaking out of him. The chatter dies down.

“Well, well, _well_ \- Mr. uh - I don’t know how to pronounce your last name, but ma cher, I wouldn’t need to - “ wisely, Martin doesn’t carry on with this joke, instead peeking behind him at Isak and winking, as if to say, _fuck, I can’t help myself_ \- and Isak knows exactly. Martin starts to introduce him to the room. “Everyone, this is Even - ”

“I’m Even,” he introduces himself needlessly, smiling a little and sending everyone a dainty wave. He doesn’t even look nervous, just beautiful and happy and possibly a little too cool for them. Peter adjusts his beret before sticking his hand out first, a thousand gold bangles slinking down his wrist when Even shakes it.

“Wow, for a moment, I almost regret knowing Michel,” Yanny jokes in German, and Isak shoots him a look, even though he doesn’t catch it. Yanny, in all his 165 metre glory, just hops right over and hugs Even. “Please to meet you, love - ”

“Ah, it’s English only,” Martin announces, and all the boys collectively acknowledge it with a courteous switch, their side chatter remaining low and idle in their mother tongue. When Felix goes to hand Even a drink, his hand lingers on his wrist for a moment longer than Isak deems really necessary.

“So, where are you from, then? England Or....Netherlands?” Peter guesses, popping up on the counter and stirring his drink, while Felix lines up the mirror at the table and bends over to take a line. Isak internally flinches; he and Even had only the briefest of talk concerning the drugs that would be consumed tonight, and Even only stated that he didn’t care, so long as no one insisted he do any either. Isak had anticipated this being his answer; he had already briefed Martin several times this would be the case. Even makes no notice of it anyway. 

“Oh - what?” Even laughs, “No, no, I’m from Norway.”

“Norway!” Yanny chirps, and then spins around comically to point at Isak. “Well you must - Isak! Did you know! Even is _also_ from Norway - ”

Martin starts to laugh, and Isak tries to look unimpressed. With heavy sarcasm in his tone, he says, “Yes, we've met.”

Even just grins this magnanimous smile, and in Norwegian, says, “How great to finally be acquainted, stranger - ”

Isak rolls his eyes at him, but he’s now incapable of keeping the smile off his face, now that everyone is looking at him. “ _Yanny_ ,” he whines, “This is my boyfriend, Even. God. How many people from Norway do you think Martini knows?”

“Oh, shit - ”

“Oh my God, _you’re_ the boyfriend,” Felix calls out excitedly, his nose sufficiently pink around the edges as he curls around the table to give Even a hug. “Well, we are so fucking happy to meet you, treasure - “

Peter gives Isak a sceptical once over, “Isak, how come you never mentioned how fucking gorgeous he is - ”

“Don't even get me started," Martin clucks his tongue, "I don't even want to tell you what I had to do to get a photo, God- "

"I told you I didn't have any recent ones - and Even doesn't do social media, it's only his portfolios," Isak counters, the same excuse he's given a thousand times. "The only photos I had were from like - four years ago - "

"Oh, so you two have known each other that long?" Peter asks.

Isak thinks about it. There are so many ways to answer that question. "Since I was seventeen." 

"Mmm," Martin hums, trying to fit his smoke into his long cigarette holder while it's already burning. "First loves are the sweetest honey, aren't they, dear?"

"Oh, I didn't realise that was a thing that actually existed," Peter teases, but he gazes at Even with a renewed appreciation, a slight raise in his eyebrow.

"Well, I didn't realise that was a phrase," Isak raises his eyebrows. 

"It is now, I made it up," he says with the purse of his bottom lip. "I was inspired à la _Honey_ by our Goddess -"

“No fucking wonder, now I know why you’re so picky,” Yanny teases, going over to light his cigarette where Isak is sitting on his crates. “Jesus, he reminds me of James Dean. The movie star, not the - other one. oh, now I really wish Michel was here!”

Isak rolls his eyes again. Then he realises they're all still speaking in German, and makes amends. “Just remember,” he warns everyone. “It’s English now, okay. Don’t be assholes, for once in your life - ”

“Did someone say asshole?” Felix spins around from where he was conversing with Even. “That reminds me, Martini, I need to give you your bleach kit back, next time I'm over - ”

“Oh, for the love of God,” Isak shakes his head, but it’s worth it, when Even laughs at his reaction from clear across the room. 

“Okay! We have t-minus one hour to get going, there are lines to do, beers to finish, futschi's to down -” Martin orders everyone around, standing at the sink with a spatula in the air like a General. “Alix is on at two, and I said we’d be there before he starts! Chop, chop! We’re going to Warshauer Straße first, because there’s a Photoautomat - ”

“Why don’t we go to the one in Friedrichshain - that way we’ll be right there already,” Felix suggests, and Martin taps him gently on the shoulder with his spatula. He turns to Even, "I demand that we have a photo together, I won't take no for an answer."

Isak giggles to himself, and rolls Even a cigarette, enjoying the attention Even is receiving, and that there is a consistent stream of conversation outpouring from everyone crowded into their cramped greenhouse of a kitchen, and at one point Martin makes a toast and everyone starts to sing along a little to one of Isak's favourite [songs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BI2Et19vDCM&list=RDBI2Et19vDCM&start_radio=1) playing over the speakers. He glows under the sheer weight of moment.

“Perfect! Now smile, ma cher, you're got everything you wished for,” Martin shimmies a little and knocks his shoulders purposely into Isak's, and when the conversations inevitably diverge into several at once, he leans over to sneak the lighter right out of Isak’s fingers. He does smile then, shrugging as he does so, but can’t find it him to protest it. Not right now, when everything feels so bright, and electrifying, and tangible.

-

 

[SØNDAG 04:14](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JWnX41TBFF4)

Turns out Isak needn’t be so damn anxious before. They arrive like a flutter of moths, swinging through with the bouncer’s good graces, stripping off their outside layers and checking their bags, and then following the boys around as they make a few rounds to see which regulars have shown up this weekend, their usual suspects lurking some of the more tame spots of B.-; followed by a little survey of the dance floors, a few drinks at the upper bar. Even remains pretty quiet, absorbing the impact of this place, which Isak understands. There’s no point in trying to make sense of this club; originally it was a power plant, and now it remains the largest of it's kind of Berlin, or possibly Germany as a whole. Plenty of space for a multitude of dark corners, an imposing statue made of stone right when you enter, a grandiose metal skeleton frame on the first floor, and the many, many obscured faces shifting around in the shadows. All the same, he’s sure Even is paying attention, taking it in, absorbing as much as he’s able to.

People have infinite amounts of stories of their first night they came to B.-, but over the last few months, Isak's found a few common themes uniting them: either they went wild, with their arms up above their head and heads tipped back, calling out to their tribes of the strange and disbanded and disillusioned. For those who find some kind of rhythm amidst the disorder, and darkness and carnal bacchanal hedonism. These are the ones who disappear into the crowd and not resurface until Monday at noon, where you might find them stumbling, zombified gurning expressions, trance like and rather bedraggled, still hearing the sound system ringing in their ears hours later; one must physically escort them from the floor to the comfort and relative safety of their home. These are very often the tales Isak hears; there are whole Instagram pages dedicated to B.- memes.

Then there’s a second type. A more hopeful, naive, individual, who likely arrives in a group of those who have already been before, and toe their way out slowly. Testing the waters, and trying - regardless if that effort is actually covert or if they look like lost little lambs - to treat a night in B.- like any other wild party they’ve been too. Except it’s not just any wild party. And they haven’t been anywhere like this before. Even definitely chooses to stay close, which Isak is grateful for. He shimmers under his attention, and the unconstrained thrum of the dance floor. Isak was of the former persuasion for his first time, and he thinks of if Even ran buckwild into the muck of it, there may have been some meltdowns on his part. At least tonight the music is good, and the volume of tourists seems to be lacking. 

After a few hours of dancing and drinking and making requisite trips to the toilets to snort more lines, during the darkest part of astronomical twilight, they part from the dance floor and congregate outside on a large cinder block playground. Isak's a pill and three (or four?) lines of K in, planted firmly between Even’s splayed legs, leaning back against his chest; watching as he smokes a joint and seeing shapes in the smoke as it curls in lazy tendrils into the black sky before disappearing forever. He alternates this with pressing his cheek along the soft tension of Even’s silky shirt and smells their combined sweat and deodorant. Peter, wearing a pair of tiny yellow sunglasses no doubt dosed to the heavens on pep, is talking so quickly his words all blur together, and all around him it feels electric and lush with energy. The night and it’s laughter sinks into fainéant spirit, and fuck, okay, maybe he _didn’t_ need that bump Felix offered him, and it probably was bigger than necessary, but fuck it. All Isak can do is enjoy the way Even’s arms around his shoulders and sink into his embrace, protected. He wants to roll up like a child in this feeling, forever; dazed, adored, safe -

“Well, well, well, Christ, look at this _joli enfant,_ ” Martin’s voice swoops in, and Isak blinks lazily at him, feels distantly a little bead of sweat rolling down his temple. Martin is holding a large ornate fan with glittering orange and aquamarine butterflies; otherwise his outfit is black mesh, short black cargo shorts held up by a ostentatious silver buckled belt, and leather black doc martens. He fans it obnoxiously in Isak’s face, too close, so that all the frills at the end tickle his cheeks. Isak smacks it away, and Martin's smile reaches from ear to ear, gum stuck between two of his front teeth.  

“Ffff- stop, Martini,” he complain, speech slow and feeble, hardly capable of mustering a eye roll. He knows he’s high as fuck and that it will pass, so for now, he’s content to watch everything submerge into a blend of nonsense swirling together. His reactions are delayed, arriving slowly, thick like molasses, sweet like the sweat he licks off his upper lip. Had they been dancing for ages already, or what? They right in the dead of night, and yet it’s still so achingly hot.

“Bébé, you are so fucking gone,” Martini teases him, around lighting a cigarette he pulled from a silver case he keeps tucked in a band around his arm. He plops down beside them, and Felix follows his lead, stroking Isak's chin with a magenta feather boa that he certainly did not arrive with. “Honestly, what are we gonna do with you.”

“Nothing, I’m fine, you drama queen,” Isak defends himself, bating away at the boa and poking at Even’s hand, “Tell them I’m fine. Apparently they listen to you.”

“Says he’s fine,” Even shrugs, looking ethereal under the outside floodlight, standing out amongst all these bodies, somehow still untouched and pristine, unlike the rest of them. He hugs Isak a little closer, until it feels like they're just a single seam of one long body, and whispers in his ear, “You’re fine, aren’t you, babe?”

“Oh, I’m not talking about Isak’s ability to send himself twirling down a K-hole - ” Martin laughs, and it strikes Isak every time, how much he's in his element here. He points the fan at the both of them and wags it accusingly. “I’m talking about the love-sick look on his face - “

 “It’s positively inspiring, or sickening, I can’t tell which. I remember when Michel and I still looked at each other like that - ugh, I wish he was out with us tonight!” Yanny gushes, “...and then the other day, we saw this amazing piece of art hidden near Kottbusser Tor, and Michel turned to me and said that it reminded him of me, and I - ” 

The music thuds loudly inside, the large metal door clanging open and closed every so often. Yet in his high all feels distant, like it matters like to him where they actually are - the smell of smoke, the click-click of his wrist bone, tasting sweat and plastic glitter in the corner of his mouth. Of course, Even remains a disciple of effortless discipline, only smoking his joints, and drinking when he feels like it - and here under the light, his smile wide like a crescent moon and twice as bright, Isak realises everyone else has faded away beyond him; chest swelling with adoration, so much so it encourages him to lean his head back, letting it lull against his shoulder, and kisses his neck, where everyone can see, and admire, and envy.

“Do you think Alix will be finished soon, I thought  - ” he only catches the beginning of his sentence, and then Peter laughs again, rolling a cigarette, and then rolling another one, passing it to Isak. He takes it, admiring it curiously between his fingers. He idly surveys his friends, all strewn about rolling cigarettes or joints and talking frivolous shit, and to the loose masses of people around them, little more than blurred out shapes, flouncing around like miscreants in outlandish outfits, energies pulsating, and filling Isak’s entire line of sight. It's a little overstimulating. He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to look anymore.

Yanny’s chirpy voice comes through, “Fuck no, he’s on for ages, he’s down like a half kilo of speed, he’ll be playing until Monday, God that boy gets so fucked - ”

“- Fuck, true, he started at two didn’t he, so probably - what, six? seven? Shit, I just wanted to see him before Justine and Antoni do - last time we talked it was sort of awkward - ”

And another voice - Martin, probably, “ - why, cause you sucked him off and then he left you on read - ?”

“Oh my god, rude, no! He didn’t leave me on read, did _he_ say that? No, it’s because we totally were supposed to go looking for stockings for me at KaDeWe…”

“No, no, no - you told me he left you on read! You said that!” 

“No I didn't - !” 

“Babes, anyone seen my lighter - it’s the pink one, fuck sake, where did I put it - ”

“That wasn’t even _your_ pink lighter, you bitch, it was mine! You stole it from me where we were at [Silverfuture](http://silverfuture.net/cms/) two nights ago - ”

“Um, no, that's a different one, this was one like, a light pink one it - ”

“Ugh,” Isak groans, blinking his eyes open and mustering himself to sit up a little. It feels like the peak of that last line is waning, and when he turns around he finds Even already looking at him, “Don’t mind them, I’d tell them to speak English except they’re literally bitching about a lighter.”

He can feel Even’s laugh on his ear, and the breathy whisper of his Norwegian sends a small shiver down his neck, “I don’t care. I’m enjoying just watching everything, as boring as that sounds. And obviously, you're here, and that's what I care about the most.” 

“Oh,” Isak murmurs, and brings his cigarette to light finally. Which is the same moment both Felix and Yanny realise _he_ has the lighter, and it elicits a round of outraged squealing, “ _What_? Oh. Sorry.”

“God, you are just like Michel - why didn’t _I_ think of that,” Yanny laughs, pressing his cigarette against the tip of Isak’s, their cherry embers kissing. “You _would_ have the lighter, you little devil - “

“I didn’t know you were looking for it. And English, please,” Isak mutters, for the fifth time, it feels, but Yanny just shrugs apologetically and gives Even his best eyelash flutter. 

“Of course, babe,” Felix purrs, ignoring what he just said, “Welcome back. Thought you fell into the K-hole for good.”

He scoffs, “Never do! Come on, let’s be chill for five seconds - “

“Our dear Even was practically cradling you like a _petite bébé_ \- “

“ _Our dear_ Even? And it’s by far the most tame cuddle, not like the rest of you - ” he frowns suddenly, and shakes his head, making a time out motion with his hands, “English, please!”

 “Yes, Mr. Isakyaki, whatever you say Mr. Isakyaki,” Yanny mocks, petulant and demure, flicking ash with a decidedly sassy undertone, “You sure are bossy, you know.”

“Oh, he knows,” Martin coos, effectively swinging back into their conversation, if only just to gain up on Isak - which is typical of him. This kind of jest all feels strangely brotherly, a feeling Isak is still getting used to with them. Isak catches Even’s eye, instantly forgoing whatever the hell they were just talking about, thoughts evaporating like iridescent oil slicked bubbles in his head. Pop, pop, _pop!_ He can’t help it. He doesn’t stand a chance, not when Even is smiling the way he is, a small smile, lips pursed in humour, eyes sparkling beneath low-lidded lashes, cheeks still so rosy and flushed, a little speck of blue paint on his neck where the shower missed from earlier - and Isak can feel those butterflies now, crawling up his throat. He’s not sure if it’s nausea or elation or both, but whatever it is, it’s distinctly Even who is making him feel it. He steps off the cinder bloc with shaky legs, standing just near Even's knee, and takes the joint when it's passed him.

“Anyway, shall we - dance now? What do you say?” Felix suggests and hops up too, springing to life, making Vogue hands at them all. Peter is fixing his beret again, organising all the contents of his fannypack slung around his chest, and soon enough they'll all traipse to the dance floor - no need to stamp out their cigarettes to go indoors. The question remains: do they go back upstairs, where Alix is play, or downstairs to the main floor - 

“Woops - sorry, hey, don’t we know each other?” a rush of people flooding outside and a slew of new voices, and one in particular sounding from Isak’s left, and he spots him a second too late, thinking whoever it could be is addressing one of the boys - likely Martin, who seems to know half the regulars - and is  a little dumbfounded at this new stranger. No one starts to chat like they know him, and this random guy - laughing and bumping into their orbit by mistake - tall and wearing a leather collar, is staring - is addressing _Even_ , who just looks at him blankly, no doubt misunderstanding.

 “No, sorry, you don’t know each other,” Isak hastily interrupts, "He's not from here."

The guy shrugs and shuffles along, easy as can be, before any of the other boys can get a word in. Nonetheless, the interaction shirks in his gut a little, turning his blood hot with discord, and then hotter still when the boys start to laugh and tease Even for being the 'human incarnation of honey' as they've come to call this effect - since they arrived, Even has unintentionally attracted a swarm of eager club goers who can sniff out a newbie and would give anything to break him in with a dance or two. Or more than that, if they got their way.

“I swear I’ve seen him on a Sunday morning, but with a leash before - yes, with Yvette!” Martin goads, raising an eyebrow at Isak. “What a little _sprite_. Cute moon boots though.”

Isak only rolls his eyes and doesn't raise to comment. He knows it will only fuel the teasing if he acknowledges his possessiveness. 

“So - er, who was that? Did you know him?” Even asks in Norwegian. His eyes follow the guy, who no doubt is somewhere in the courtyard wandering around out of view, and Isak refuses to turn around to look, in case that guy is watching them, and give him any reason to come back.

“No, no, I didn’t - he was talking to _you_ ,” Isak returns, ignoring the boys around him, “Or at least - well, you never know how fucked up people are - but like, he was hitting on you. Definitely. So forward, and unnecessary. But it gets the job done. ” 

“Oh,” Even looks a little delighted by this. His lips curl into a smug smile, and he kills his joint. “Well, that’s quite amusing.” 

“Ugh, no,” Isak frowns. “It quite annoying, actually - ”

“Can’t believe I have to say this right now,” Martin smacks him with the fan on the shoulder. Hard. “But English, please! You should like you should be on Star Trek.”

“You don’t even know what Star Trek is, you asshole,” Isak just snarks back, despite being very aware that Martin does know what Star Trek is, because of Zachary Quinto _and those eyebrows, ma cher, it's like homos-in-space meets avant garde, with the right outfit -_ “And I cannot believe you just compared Norwegian to Klingon, oh my _God_ \- ”

“That’s the funniest fucking shit I’ve heard,” Even bursts out laughing, hands coming together in the centre of his chest as he giggles. “Oh my god, how fucking perfect, Martin, I could kiss you for that - ”

“Anytime, just lay one on me, mon chou,” Martin teases, and Isak doesn’t even raise to the bait this time - he really doesn’t.

-

[SØNDAG 05:49](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7sK1aFH4dns)

Any amount of time could have surpassed Isak at this point, and it would mean nothing to him; all he knows isn’t light out yet, from where the sky seeps into through the large cracks in the windows. Dancing with Even in the middle of a sea of bodies, his mind blissfully absent of all thoughts; he is reduced to purely a common thread of energy, existent amongst all the commotion - he, mouth open wide, he with a world painted inside his eyelids - feels unlike any other moment Isak can distinctly put name to. It’s not like love; it rides much too close to the edge of destructive - instead captures him in an intoxicating, tormenting obsession of knowing this moment will end, and life will presume, and he already misses it.

At the same time it doesn’t matter: this is what touched Isak so profoundly about existentialism. This violent understanding that life is now, and then it is not, and eventually the creases of his soul will all smooth out someday. It should be depressing, and in some moods, it is. But it is also freeing. Isak has now; he can’t worry about anything else. And so he doesn’t. He just tries to keep Even as close as possible.

Just after Alix finishes off his set and the DJ changes, Even motions behind him towards the back to the bar, and Isak follows him, latched onto the back of his damp shirt with pinched knuckles, feet carrying him through the throngs of dancers. He stares at the back of his neck, where there’s a small crescent shaped curl at his nape, the same one which always refuses to behave, shiny with sweat. It twirls his butterflies with fondness.

They stand at the crowded bar as the bartender moves from patron to patron, taking his time as people leisurely hand around and chat over the music, ordering beer or coffee or lemonade - depending on what they’re on, probably, or how dehydrated they are. Just down around the bend of the counter he sees the back of Martin’s the neat curls, reminding him that he's startling blonde now. Isak thinks about going over to get him, but Even’s hands roaming up the back of his neck and effectively ends that train of thought.

Isak blinks up at him, and his eyes so blue in the dank green lighting. He runs his thumb against Isak’s forehead now like he's anointing him with the beads of sweat gathered there, sliding down his cheek and to the corner of his mouth, and all Isak can do is gaze imploringly back, mouth parted - mouth always parted for Even. He leans up to kiss him, and his lips taste just as he expects, and Isak is exposed, so exposed somehow, by just a kiss. How does he understand this feeling? It’s something to do with knowing Even, and being known by him, and the harmonious rhythm their bodies create from this shared knowledge. _Here you are, and here I am, and here we are together -_

“Hey,” Even says, “How are you?”

He blinks owlishly, “I’m good. What about you?”

"I love dancing with you," is Even's answer.

Isak kisses him again, before pulling away and licking his lips, “Me too. But I think we should go soon. This will go on for hours and hours, and we don’t have a lot of time.”

For a second he wonders if Even will refuse; Isak wasn’t even thinking about leaving until this very moment. He realises it’s actually Sunday now and they only have - _fuck_ , he refuses to count the days, but he knows they're numbered. 

Even just nods, smiling a little. Still not looking away from Isak. “You’re right. It’s nearly sunrise. And there’s so much more to see.”

And then it happens in a split second, one he can barely process: first just the sound of it, then the scene following right in front of him, blatant and glaring. Whoever Martin wass talking to is now yelling - and it's a familiar voice, eclipsed only by Martin's shrill screeching and a glass breaking - and Martin - that’s Martin yelling back, but at who?  At the bartender ? Or no - the person he’s yelling at, _that_ person, a person he fucking knows, who's standing only metres away from him - and who he hasn't seen for months now - _fuck_

It’s jarring how, in slow motion, he watches Even turn around to face the commotion and witnesses the same train wreck, and Isak can't find a breath - can hardly swallow down any air - when Even bends over and mutters, “Should we - uh, go and help him?”

Isak thinks for a moment it'll all simmer down. But it doesn't. They’re still arguing, oh fucking God, _they’re still fucking arguing_ , and he doesn’t know if Martin sees him, the way he’s waving his fan everywhere, and the people around him have started to take notice, backing up to give space as he goes at it, and their faces are all contorted, and Isak is rooted to the floor like he’s made from it -

“Isak? Hey, did you hear me, I said - ”

“No,” Isak jerks his head, “No, I think we should - go get Peter and Felix, I don’t think we should go over - ”

He turns around, and in a split second he’s already immersed in bodies again, searching blindly for signs of a feather boa or beret, tongue caught to the roof of his mouth, jaw clenching, don’t think about it, don't picture his face, Isak, don’t think -

“Hey,” Yanny’s face flies into view. Isak grabs onto him, perhaps a little tightly, and gets his attention, “Hey, where are the other’s? Martin is having a go at the bar - can you - ”

“Fuck, if it’s Chiara she can just sort it out herself - ”

“No, they’re gonna get kicked out if they go on, he’s on a highball, fucking - he needs you, go fucking help him, I _can’t_  -”

“ - Alright, _alright_ , I’m going, chill out, Jesus -” out of the crowd he reaches in and pulls out a wrist attached to a very high looking Felix, and then they're both gone. Isak turns back to find Even, but he's right there behind him, face unreadable, and so concerned it scares him a little.

Isak does the only thing he can think of. He grabs his hand. “Okay, let’s go.”

“But wait - Isak - ”

Isak’s already leading them away, away from the bar, away from the music and the crowds and Martin, and everything else Isak wishes to leave behind. Instead it's burned on the inside of his skull, an unpleasant, sickly, white hot heat giving him a sudden headache. “Literally,” he mutters to Even, “They’re fine, I know Martin, we’re not going to help at all by getting ourselves involved with that shit.”

When he doesn’t hear a reply, he just barrels on through until they've made it successfully down to the first floor and to the ground level. His mind is one-track now: the closer and closer they turn in their chips at the wardrobe to get their jumpers and leave, the better. He doesn’t feel like he takes a true breath of air until they're outside again and he gulps down a real one, unsaturated with cigarette smoke and evaporated sweat.

Outside the sky is the most sombre, diluted pink, meaning they haven’t missed the sunrise yet - still tucked behind the horizon. Behind them B.- is a looming, unmovable monster, the bass so loud it’s turning the gravel pebbles over and over. After a few minutes he spots a depressing collection of beleaguered trees, below them a graveyard of litter and God only knows what else, and Isak stops before them. Even pauses after a few paces when he realises he’s walking ahead alone.

“Did you forget something?”

“No,” all he can muster is one word and a shake of his head. His mouth floods with saliva, and he knows what will happen next. “I’m just gonna - ”

Isak makes it to the edge of a half deadened shrub, puking into the brambles and waiting another beat. Will nothing more come up? His head feels lighter, inexplicably, and his gut - well. It’ll have to settle in time. He spits - which is probably just lovely, wiping his mouth and backing away after another deep breath. Fresh air is the remedy. That, and eventually some food once he's sobered up and he's not clenching his jaw so much. It aches a little, right there in the bone.

“Sorry,” he says. He’s too high to be embarrassed about it, so instead he just operates on automatic.

“It happens,” Even shrugs, as if to be expected. Which makes sense, when Isak considers it, given his old job at Fri Sjel. He probably _does_ know. Perhaps not often to him. But he’s seen things.

The world is startlingly chilly sterile in the burgeoning light. It’s only after they arrive at Ostbahnhof that Isak stops again to slip on his jumper and then a loose pair of track pants, and runs a hand through the damp ends of his hair, deciding which platform to take.

Even wraps up too. His jumper further destroys his hair, and yet somehow it still looks sort of tousled and effortless. Now with his glasses back on, his attire is remade into a look distinctly Berlin - and how unfair of him, to spend a night without sleeping in a sweaty, dirty club, and leave looking pretty refreshed all considering, as if he were a native of this city his entire life. Isak’s certainly never managed to pull off any convincing displays of effortlessness. He usually just looks fucking tired after.

He watches Even, hip cocked to the side as he stands before the giant clock at the end of the platform, gazing up at it. He’s standing so still with fingers twined around his rucksack straps, and growing more alluring the longer Isak looks. Even has this unnerving ability to shift the surrounding energy depending on his mood, from aloof and unreachable to down right bewitching - and it’s so potent, whatever he feels, and it absorbs Isak along with it.

This is what Isak knows. Even’s always aware. He’s always watching, even when he’s not watching Isak. There’s always something - at least two or three things - Even’s is thinking about. No matter where he is or what he’s doing. His dreams are laden with the heaviness of not being able to close his eyes to the world and ignore it.

He can’t relate. Isak knows how to ignore everything.

But not Even. Not that ardent gaze. It’s like he’s never blinked since the day he was born, and Isak is hopeless to knowing it. How can he not? He’s seen the art. Even _knows_ him, knows every detail - down to the freckle painted just above his lip - like a confession - like an adornment -

Even painted those portraits of him. I couldn’t forget about January, he said. Isak can’t either. And he can’t forget what his face looked like staring back at him, in a gradient of red. When he first saw, the thought that came to mind immediately was _i_ __f_ that isn’t evidence I don’t know what else to call it. _

Or maybe that’s not quite right. Call it a promise. Call it a sacrifice. Even can’t contain what he feels so he uses his hands. He creates something that looks so unnervingly like love. It’s more precious to Isak than he can bear admitting.

“Hey,” he says, poking his side. “I know where we can go, let’s get the next S9 towards Schönefeld.”

“Okay,” Even agrees easily enough, eyes skimming his face. “You okay?”

“Yeah, sorry,” he nods, looking back out on the tracks. “Just got overwhelmed.”

“Okay,” he’s so calm it’s almost irksome. Then he narrows his eyes a little, serving to make Isak feel subconscious. “And are you overwhelmed now?”

“No, I’m fine now.”

“Hmmm,” he narrows his eyes a little, but his voice remains nonchalant and controlled. Soft. “You’re so far away when you’re thinking.”

Isak just bites his lips, jaw tensing. He’s acutely awake, all his nerve endings erected on their tiptoes, poised and waiting for the blowout. Except it doesn’t come. The club is behind them now. Isak wishes immeasurable distance still between him and all it contains. “Just kinda high still.”

“So...that fight, that wasn’t normal, right? I mean, I’ve never been anywhere like - B.-, but it’s just - Martini doesn’t strike as me as someone who gets into fights?” he broaches with a confused brow line. “Is this the kind of thing that happens when he’s like, been drinking or what?” 

“Fighting or violence is strictly forbidden, unless it’s consensual,” Isak explains flatly. “So...I don’t know, maybe - the guy was rude, or they were arguing over - a broken glass.”

“A broken glass,” Even repeats, equally as flat. “Huh. But I mean, it seemed like they knew each other. Did you see him?”

Don’t think about his face, Isak tells himself. Don’t picture it. “No. Martin’s not the type - his drama is usually all air and this was - well, it’s a long story. I don’t know. He can tell you. But I wouldn’t - well, whatever. It’s whatever.”

“Right.”

Their train comes whooshing past, but Isak doesn’t react. He’s too caught up in the look Even’s levelling at him, somehow like he knows he’s lying, and yet, with no surmounting evidence to prove it, won’t address it. Or perhaps neither of them are willingly to acknowledge it first. Regardless, Isak lets the subject drop, and thankfully, so does Even, and they board their train, and they zip past a moment later, somewhere far, somewhere that is not here anymore.

-

[SØNDAG 06:13](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=msCOLv8B_Jo)

For a while they stroll through Treptower Park in a companionable, tired silence. Already Isak is considerably more peaceful, submerged under the sudden spates of trees; green leaves fluttering as far as he can see above and beyond him, the light winding through the branches and creating warm spots where it touched the pavement.

“I’m sad summer is ending,” he confesses.

“Are you?” Even asks. He considers it, “I don’t know. I guess I kinda am too. It was like summer was here, and now it’s happened, and now it’s over. And that’s that. It sucks.”

“Exactly,” Isak nods, “I just remember being so excited to go to Oslo. It felt like two months would last me forever.  And now I’m in Berlin again. Almost like it didn’t happen.”

“But it did happen,” he reminds him. 

Isak nods. “Fucking hell, it hardly feels real sometimes. Even though I was there.”

“Same. Even though I was there too,” Even smiles. He meanders closer and wraps his arm around Isak’s shoulder, squeezing him a little. Isak leads them down a different path, through an tunnel of uniform trees on either side. “Oh, Isak...having you back...well. I’ll miss you. It won’t be the same, it won’t be the same without you.”

“Please,” he frowns, leaning his head in a little to touch the side of Even’s, “Don’t - we can’t get melancholic about this yet. You can’t miss me before you’ve gone. It’s not fair.”

“I - wow, where the hell are we? What is this place?” Even asks, taking notice as they pass through a stone archway, stopping just short of the rust coloured granite arches, flanked on either side by two kneeling statues. Down the steps are two rows of obtuse, squat, rectangular granite boxes - sarcophagi, Isak knows - lining of a median strip of neatly trimmed shrubbery. It's obviously not just a garden, too regal, not to mention there's not a single flower in sight. It imposes a sense of unflinchingly order. There are no soft edges here. These geometric, unforgiving blocks of marble line the two walkways and lead up to a climatic axis, where at the top of knoll sits a white cylindrical tomb, and atop this tomb, stood a statue of a soldier, looming over everything before them. Unseeing into the distance.

“This is the [Soviet Memorial,](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soviet_War_Memorial_\(Treptower_Park\))” Isak says, going down a few of the steps and turning to look at Even. “Come on.”

“Everything is so _Brutal_ here,” he remarks, face scrunched up. “It’s like...it feels almost apocalyptic. Or post-apocalyptic.”

Isak considers it. There's a certain kind of beauty in  these monuments, so unapologetic ally austere and uncompromising. It just makes him enjoy it more. “They built it the year after the war, to commemorate the some eighty thousand Soviet soldiers who died trying to take Berlin. Those - ” he points to the giant granite blocks - “are literal graves for soldiers. So I guess, at the time, it did probably feel like the end of the world. At least the one they knew of.”

Even stares where Isak is pointing, his mouth open a little. Then he looks back at Isak. “I never knew you explaining... _art_ to me was a thing I was into. Please. Continue.”

“It’s not art I’m explaining,” Isak disagrees. “It’s history. All I had to do was look it up and read about it.”

“Except that this _is_ technically art,” he raises his eyebrows. “It’s...well, it’s sort of beautiful. But like, beautiful in a terrifying way. Makes me wanna quiver before it.”

He pauses, those words carrying a strange echo in his head. Even is looking at the statue at the end, the one of the Soviet soldier holding the small child in one hand and standing over a broken swastika, facing the city. The line of his profile is outfitted by the pinpricks of sunlight, and Isak thinks, well, yeah, exactly. He wants to tell him, _you know, that’s so funny you say that, because that’s exactly how I felt when I first saw you -_

“I think a lot of people find it too intense, or I don’t know, ugly,” Isak hums, a little flushed from his ruminations. “But I like it.”

“Oh?” he raises an eyebrow, “How come?”

They’re meandering down alongside tombs and the fastidiously kept gardens. Isak shrugs, considering. “It’s like….you know, last semester - fuck it, the last eight months have been some of the most...intense months of my life.”

“Right,” Even encourages with a wave of his hand. A familiar, comforting gesture that signifies when he wants someone to continue on speaking.

Isak licks his lips. “Right. So...like, I started this new class - I’ve talked about Existentialism enough already  - but one of the things that always struck me was a lecture I had on [Heidegger](http://thephilosophersmail.com/perspective/the-great-philosophers-10-martin-heidegger/). Okay, technically he's pre-Existentialism. His influence is heavy on Sartre and de Beauvoir. He's so fucking complicated. There are plenty of things I disagree with him on. But Heidegger - amongst other things - believed human beings surrender to a common norm, get caught up in stupid shit, and through this we forget to live life for ourselves. He calls it an 'authenticity of the self' - not ‘our-self’ but a ‘they-self’ we inhabit. A ‘they-self’ is a self we construct which is owned by others - a socially constructed version of ourselves. Am I making sense?”

“You are."

“For him, in order to move away from this in-authenticity, we must grasp the notion we all die. Everyone should be very aware of their own death. It's only through this understanding we may have a chance to live authentically. We must prioritise. Stop worrying so much about what other people think, or what one thinks they _should_ be doing with our lives ...he calls this ‘the chatter.’ Later in his life,  Heidegger was giving a lecture and someone asked him, ‘okay, so how do we recover authenticity, if we’ve lost it in the first place?’” 

Even only shakes his head, clearly waiting to hear what he's going to say next. He feels a fluttering in his belly at his undivided attention.

“Well, to Heidegger it was actually quite simple. We should spend more times in graveyards,” he gestures to the monuments, built to remain here forever. They’re standing a few steps apart on the knoll now, towards the largest statue at the head of the memorial. Even’s expression is inscrutable.

“Yeah...so, anyway,” Isak shrugs. “Heidegger calls it Sein-zum-Tode or ‘being towards death’...I became obsessed with it. All I wanted to do was understand what he meant. And...it started to put into perspective the truth of it all. My mother was dead, because that’s what happens to people. They die. And I was alive. And I could be fucked up wishing I could take it back. Or I could live my life. Death is death. I can’t change anything now. But I can live my own life to the best my ability, and remember her this way. I don't want to take anything for granted anymore.”

He sees Even nod out of the corner of his eye. 

“It sounds like I have it all figured out, but I don't. He's just a philosopher. It doesn't erase what happened. Every time I think about my childhood I get so angry. So much of what happened could have been preventable if - we were just...a _normal_ family. But - that's not how it happened. I think everyone kind of saw the signs my mother wasn't very well. But no one did anything. My sister left. My father left. I left. And my mother - she. She was the first to leave, in a way," he swallows. Shrugging needlessly again, resolutely not looking at Even. "And I know - no family is normal. I don't mean it like that. I just I wished we all cared little more about each other. But I guess that was too much to ask."

He pauses, “Anyway. This graveyard isn't sad like the other ones. That's why I like it. I'm not - it's more abstracted. And there’s a church - Taborkirche, just over on the other side of the park. It reminds me of the Sagene Church. Sometimes I go there, and say a prayer. I know she'd like that. And on the way back, I’ll come here.”

“Wow,” comes a low, stunned murmur a moment later. Isak doesn’t dare look at him yet. “What happened to you - what happened to your family, I don't think anyone faced with these situations could have made better choices than you did. You were only a teenager. How were you supposed to deal with it? How were you supposed to know?"

"I don't know," he murmurs. "I could have done more - "

"But you just said that you can't change the past. There aren't any 'could have' or 'should have' now. I mean, you took all this and more from her passing away. You haven't forgotten her." 

“I - ” Isak starts, then sucks in a deep breath and exhales shortly, mouth twisting and pursing. He’s incapable of accepting a compliment on the spot like this. Alight underneath Even’s adornment, pinpricks of fire running up and down his skin. He can feel his eyes on the side of his face. But instead his gaze is drawn toward a statue tucked in the corner, to the left of the red granite arches. A woman crying in plain stone. The first time he spent a long time in wonder. Who was she? What did she mean? And then he went home and looked it up, and read all about it. She’s the embodiment of Mother Russia, mourning all her sons who never returned home.

“She would be proud of you,” Even says softly, like Isak isn’t understanding him. Isak knows why he feels this way, why he insists it; the ghost of an old dead argument between them, years ago.  His voice sounds oddly hoarse, like he’s caught cold suddenly. He clears his throat. “I mean it. She was proud of you already. She - ”

“I know she is,” Isak admits quietly. “I mean - I knew she was. She wrote a lot about me."

“What was it like, reading those journals?” 

“Like….” Isak rummages for the best way to express it. He hardly knows himself sometimes. “Like missing a person you didn’t really know at all.”

“Oh,” the disappoint is heavy on his tongue. Isak imagines scooping it out of his mouth and holding it in his hands.

“Yeah,” he shrugs a little, hands deep in the pockets of his hoodie. It’s not that cold out. In fact, the breeze that passes through them on the steps is nothing short of a relief. “My mother was always writing when I was growing up. The journals range over the course of...I don't know, fifteen years? Some of them I haven't got into - I read a few passages and they don't make much sense. But I will read them eventually. I think - her writing made me hear her voice in my head again. I guess that's more than I could have hoped. And the language is quite beautiful sometimes. It reminds me of how much she loved to teach." 

“I forgot she was a lecturer."

Isak wants to amend what he means: no, not just a lecturer. She wanted to be a poet. No, she _was_ a poet. Back before Isak was really old enough to understand. Some afternoons she'd spend her day walking around and making notes of everything, and when he'd ask, she just said she was collecting little afterthoughts. 

By the time he was old enough to know what a poet even was, his mother had long finished teaching and hardly left the house and hardly spoke to him anyhow; there were times when everything seemed to pour from her, and Isak was still helpless to grasp any of it. Now he knows, now he knows: Marianne, the poet. He figured it out reading those journals, compiling all these little facts about her, curled up in the margins, like an afterthought. Sometimes he reads what she writes and his heart feels like it’s going to propel itself into his throat; how far away she feels, how close too. It’s as if his mother’s entire existence was one long afterthought. He doesn’t want to explain it.

"I started with the earliest. From when I was born. She wrote a lot about me, and what it was really like to be a mother, and how she felt married to my father - and she was honest. Candid."

“Your father,” Even echoes, like he’s forgotten all about him. “God, has he spoken to you since - ?” 

“No. I mean, he’s tried. But I don’t want to talk to him. Not right now. And maybe not ever,” he says.

He wonders if Even will disagree, or attempt to persuade him with an alternative argument that will dilute the absolutism of his statement. He’s heard it all before, much of it stemming inside his own head: he’s your father, after all. He just wants to check in with you. He is probably worried and feels bad how things were left. Or Isak’s favourite: don’t push him away, not when he’s all you have left.

Isak doesn’t care. He doesn’t care if he’s all alone: he doesn’t want Terje. Somehow his father’s absence feels just as final his mother’s death. There’s a current which lies within that dangerous feeling, all the ties Isak once felt connect them snapping until there was nothing. And in this great expanse of nothingness is an underbelly of darkness there he cannot wade through. Not yet. 

Even hasn’t said anything. He just surveys the memorial until his line of sight lands back on Isak, squinting in this sudden unforgiving brightness. The sun must be blinking behind Isak, he can feel it on his scalp, bathing them in a golden honey hue. There is something in his eyes, the way he’s looking at Isak, that pulls the next sentence right out of his mouth.

“Sometimes I’ll look in the mirror and see them in my face,” he says. “And I am filled with rage. It's the only evidence we're family anymore."

“Oh, babe,” Even groans, voice hardly above a whisper. Throat bobbing heavily when he swallows. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

"It's okay," he says softly. "Those are on bad days."

It’s a topic for another time, a time that is not now. It’s abrupt how sober he feels, what with Even squinting up, from a few steps below. Everything is suspended in time, all is still, except for the butterflies in his stomach. He chews on his lip: it’s always bemusing to him the effect Even has, to stir this feeling in him, to confess things he’s never said out loud.

“Anyway,” he says. “There’s something else. This - this is really important to me, because it reminds me so much of you. And when I realised what Heidegger was talking about...well. It’s partially why I started writing you after the funeral and all that.” 

“It reminded you of me?” Even smiles a little warily, brows furrowed. “Tell me.”

“One of the best ways to remember how to live authentically,” Isak takes the few steps between them, one by one, until he’s just above Even. For once a little taller. “Is to remember that we are firstly ‘our-selves’ rather than ‘they-selves.’ Of course, the daily ‘chatter’ of life makes us forget, and we end up treating people like means to end. Sartre also uses this idea in his own way to describe his concept of 'bad faith' and he gives a really good example of the role of a waiter - I'll show you later.

“So...to remove yourself from this constant cycle of bullshit, to remember that every person on this planet has an authentic self - that we are not just societal pawns, using each other as a mean's to an end - Heidegger said we needed art. Art forces us to to recognise there is a world beyond the one we know. And no matter who we are - where you're  are from, there exists art in countless forms. We see it or hear it or read it and we consume it and hopefully we even reflect on it. For me, this is really special. And I know I don’t really - love going to museums, but I should more often. Because artists - they are giving us a gift. And I think we should thank them more often,” Isak ducks his head down then, to avoid smiling too much, unable to bear the look in Even’s eyes. Then he says. “So. Thank you.”

 “Isak…” a sigh from Even. “There’s no possible way you could have _planned_ to say all that. Which means two things. That’s just who you are, which is frankly incredible. And you’re my baby, you know you are. And I love you.” 

“That’s three things,” Isak points out, and Even huffs with good humour.

His hands come up on their own accord to palm the sides of Even’s neck, and they’re standing so close now, and the blue of Even’s eyes are nearly overwhelming, when all their intensity is zeroed in on Isak this way, like he’s all Even can see, and he leans in to touch their foreheads together, their noses brushing, and Isak releases a sigh he didn’t realise he was holding in. Even’s eyes flutter, and Isak knows now they’ll kiss. His gratitude pours from his mouth, like molten gold.

How rooted he feels, surrounded by such stark reminders of death, standing here with the boy he loves most. Heart beating in patterns of three. How alive, how beautiful, how free.

-

SØNDAG 15:21

They spend the afternoon sprawled underneath his open window, sunning like cats on opposite sides of the bed because it was so damn hot again. A suspended laxitude of dozing and rolling around in their underwear.  Even plays him a [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=em0MknB6wFo) he says reminds him of them and Isak listens to it on loop with his eyes closed, joint serving to take the edge off, his body seemingly one giant ache.

It reminds him so much of the very first time they lied like this. He turned, and blew smoke right into Even’s face. And Even had laughed and kissed him. He tries it again now, and Even turns like he thought he would, and in the inescapable swelter when their mouths touch everything is effervescent and endless. There they are on the bed, just languid bodies, just idle banter, just Even’s small grin as he pushes away the sweaty curl from Isak’s forehead. Isak pictures what they look like from above, already seeing it as a memory in his brain. There they were, just limbs and mouths and fingertips.

He falls in and out of sleep the way one would step on and off a kerbside. The next time he wakes up, the sun is hiding behind a line of buildings opposite his window. Even's switched spots, pressing up against him, back to chest, knee to knee, hands curled around his middle like they were searching for little pockets. Isak rolls his head back on his shoulder and kisses his neck, distinctly aware everything smells just like them. Sweat, salty and warm like little beads of stolen ocean, running from Even's hairline to his clavicle and Isak couldn’t resist tasting. Something so familiar about it, and so unknowable too.  

Even breaks the spell first, first leaving to pee and then wandering into the kitchen, once he realises Martin has finally arrived back from the party. The last thing he hears is their idle conversation as Isak slips back into sleep again. He doesn't remember when Even returns either. Maybe they ended up visiting for a period of indefinable time. He doesn’t know. Instead he rocks between stages of dreams, the hours supple as they passed without purpose.

He should go out to join them and yet, this exhaustion saturates him in a lead casket where the thought of leaving his bed dangles out of his reach. Eventually Even does return, this time with dinner. They ate on his messy, crumb-filled bed, slurping down Pho Martin ordered from his favourite post-party joint in Kreuzberg.

Even understands when Isak tries to explain. He knew what it was like when your head felt too heavy to lift from your pillow. He said he didn't mind, that Isak should rest, but Isak couldn't help the feeling there were other things that went unsaid between them. Even wraps his long body around him and they stared out his window, trying to decipher which dots in the sky were stars and which were planes. Once Isak remembers Even drew a comic where all the stars were actually fireflies caught in a navy black netting, and Isak flew on his jet pack and pulled them down one by one for Even to keep in heart shaped boxes, until they realised then there were no more lights in the sky, and it smoothed out above like them a inverted dark ocean. He doesn't remember how the comic ended. He likes to think they all let them go again.

"Let's pretend we're the only ones who exist," at some point right before he drifted off again, Even's voice in his ear like a lullaby, "Let's go to the place where everything is hidden."

I'm already waving at you, Isak finishes in his head. Are you there yet? A song echoes, sure and slow like it came from a dream, just the fragments of a lyric absent without any tune to define it. _Come a little bit closer,_  it went. _Hear what I have to say…_

 

-

 

 

 


	3. Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Thank you everyone for reading, writing comments, leaving kudos, and reaching out on tumblr. You all help write this story alongside with me just by sending that love. It's so appreciated. I think I am quite sad to be finishing this story, hence the continual expansion of 'just one more chapter' and the additional word count spiralling out of control. I just moved house (again, God) so things have been quite stressful, and maybe a bit blue, but never fear, for writing is always my greatest companion when things are especially lonesome. 
> 
> This chapter is quite dramatic, dark, intense and there is quite a lot of introspection and angst. Please be weary, but also, do not fear: for there comes a lot of loveliness and a destined happy ending here for these two. Trust me. I love them so much, I wouldn't hurt them like this and leave it unresolved or even slightly ambiguous.
> 
> Warnings: a suicidal idealisation, as well as some pretty hurtful ablest language regarding mental health and a written experience of a panic attack. I mean it when I say there is some angst!
> 
> One further warning: I did incorporate some details that JA wrote her in SKAM books. I know there are some who don't particularly like these, and I understand that, but mine remains still canon divergent, both from the show & the her scripts. If you're wondering why some parts of this story were not explicitly referenced in COLSS or LOMIS, it is just a continuity error; I didn't know the SKAM universe as well as I do now. 
> 
> Watch out for those pesky typos - I edited it quite a few times over, but alas, there are always seems to be one or two.

-

MANDAG 08:21

 

“The powerful thing for me is, this movie was made in real time - during the fucking war, and it was made nearly entirely by refugees,” Martin’s voice is the first thing Isak hears, above the sound of the radio and the sizzle-pop of oil in the fry pan, and as Isak adjusts to being awake, he finds Even already sitting in his usual place in the far corner. Even’s already wearing a paint-covered t shirt with a sizeable hole in the collar, his hair damp and curling a little. Isak hadn’t even heard him wake up, but he must have done so with enough time to shower.

“Oh, of course. It’s insane - both on a meta level and on a real-life level. And what’s incredible to me, film wise - is that it’s a movie that is able to convey both it’s artistic virtue as well as it’s entertainment value. Like just the amount of work they put into every shot. And the lighting, God. The lighting, especially on Ilsa - they must have used a dozen lights to make her eyes twinkle every time she looks at Rick - ” Even smiles when he catches Isak staring at him, and promptly he realises himself again, standing there in the doorway in his sleep daze. Right. Breakfast now. He still feels asleep.

Isak ignores everyone in favour of making more coffee, his eyelashes clinging together with sleep crust still, lips still gummy and sour tasting when he unsticks them. Martin, naturally, is moving at the speed of a highly efficient waiter, twirling around Isak, opening the fridge, closing it, fiddling with the radio, adding salt to his eggs, turning off the hob, cutting up extra fruit - and Isak’s barely able to yank open the fridge again to look for the milk. Then he realises it’s already sitting on the table.

“Oh, is someone rejoining the living?” Martin turns his attention to Isak now. He starts dishing out eggs, little uniform slices of grapefruit sitting on each of their plates already. “At least, did you sleep well?”

“Slept just fine, and you? Have you made it actually to bed at all, or are you still - ”

“No, no, I passed out around ten I think, once I felt like my ears had stopped ringing. Goddammit I need to get some of those fancy ear plugs Felix always brings. Unfortunately they’re like a hundred euros. But I swear I’m going to ruin my hearing before I’m thirty and that will be far, far, worse,” Martin whisks Isak’s plate away and then returns it with a piece of toast, already buttered, and starts to dole out eggs.

“What film were you two discussing?”

“I was watching Casablanca last night, waiting for the takeaway to show up, and Even came out just as they were singing [La Marseillaise](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KTsg9i6lvqU) \- ”

“I couldn’t _not_ sit down and watch,” Even grins. “That scene is so powerful. I think the first time I saw it I cried.”

“You and me both, honey,” Martin nods. “And when you realise everyone - as I said - are pretty much actors who escaped Nazi occupied Europe - it is so powerful. And it was fucking 1941. They didn’t know how the war was going to end either. Ugh. _Très magnifique_.”

“No, you’re totally right,” Even nods over the rim of his mug nestled in his hands. “I love that film so much. Isak, we’ve seen it before, don’t you remember? Well, it was some time ago."

Isak pours the hot water into the cafetèire - which is really looking worse for wear these days, it’s about time they get a new one - and tries to picture it. The only plausible option is he watched it when they were together the first time. Always strange to think of he and Even in parts, like a novel: one, and now two. It startles him and internally he frowns  - much too early to be having such thoughts as these - “I don’t know. I mean, if you say so then it’s probably right. Was it one of those black and white - ”

“Oh! Forget it. Probably fell asleep halfway through,” Martin suggests blithely. “I don’t how to help him, Even, as soon as he realises it’s a black and white film - _bam_! - out like a light. Some sort of trigger, it seems.”

“That’s not true!”

Martin remains unswayed and unimpressed. “Okay, ma cher, name _one_ film you remained awake for the entire time. And we’re not counting Psycho, because you fell asleep both times, it just so happened that one was at the beginning and once at the end.”

Isak’s mind is completely blank. He rolls his eyes, “I think that’s really fucking unfair, because...it’s not like either of you let _me_ pick, and I have a shit memory about this stuff anyway….” he defends, but of course Martin isn’t having it, and Even’s trying not to laugh, and Isak just narrows his eyes and tries to think of any time he remembers watching an entire film. Then - “I sat through [She’s Gotta Have It](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BrK4-lAhkeg&t=11s) _and_ I was awake the entire time,” he points out.

Martin just rolls his eyes.

“Fine. But technically that’s a movie from 1986. And while it’s brilliant and arguably one of Spike Lee’s best, that’s not what I mean. I’m talking Golden Age, ma cher. Ones that define your understanding of film for all other films. The classics.”

Isak looks to Even, eyebrow raised. He’s heard this mantra before, from both of them. “I’m not sure I really buy that I can’t enjoy current movies just because I haven’t seen a couple from like seventy years ago."

Martin rolls his eyes. “Big surprise, you think your taste is already perfect. For shame, Isak - ”

“...I can’t in good faith defend you here, babe,” Even teases him. Martin clucks his tongue and tops of up his coffee like they’re in on this together, which only makes Isak a little irritated. Even’s expression turns wistful. “I tried once to show him Citizen Kane. But when he asked what the big deal about 'Rosebud' was I knew I’d lost him somewhere."

“Don’t even get me started about that - I have feelings, many feelings about Orson Welles,” Martin gushes. “And I’ve heard they’re finally releasing his [last film](https://www.theringer.com/movies/2018/11/2/18055292/orson-welles-netflix-other-side-of-the-wind) on Netflix like forty years after it was made.”

He fixes the tassels on the silk scarf wrapped around his head - which somehow matches the collar of his green robe. Frankly it's a little unfair, he thinks, how put together and energetic Martin always is, given it’s not even nine yet. Across from him, Even completes a perfect set of daliesque fashion bohemian types sure to land a art mag cover, or at the very least, run a popular Instagram page.

No, Isak knows he’s the odd one out here, with his frumpy bedhead, dried drool still inevitably in the corner of his mouth, and inside-out sleep shirt. He starts to shovel eggs into his mouth, grumpy disdain a stale odour stinking in his gut. He tries to like movies and art like they do, but he possesses neither the required amount of ardour nor intensity to commit in the same way.

Well, whatever. He zones out after he hears the name _Orson Welles_ again. It’s not like he’s going to magically understand who the hell they’re talking about unless he wants to face asking them. Which he does not.

Instead, in between bouts of chewing and sips of coffee, he finds himself staring at Even out of the corner of his eye, outlined by the edges of the [poster](https://www.improvisedlife.com/2015/02/13/valentine-jenny-holzer/) behind him. Martin bought it from some sold-out exhibition when he visited New York City a few years ago. A dusted pale pink border, it’s centre a photograph of a historic looking cinema, the marquee headline reading: IT IS IN YOUR SELF-INTEREST TO FIND A WAY TO BE VERY TENDER. Isak’s looked upon this poster for months and months without a proper wonder, but the relevance of it is remade now with Even sitting before it.

Why is it that things which before seemed rather inordinate, become mystifying and significant whenever Even is involved?

Another question Isak cannot ask. There’s an illusory elegance to Even washed out in pink, rosy and bright and elusive. Briefly, he could appear like someone else’s artsy, handsome, modest-in-his paint-tshirt boyfriend. Surely not Isak’s. Surely this is an alternate universe. He pictures Even wrapped around someone else, some equally as cool. He pictures all the people he probably has met who adored him from first sight, just like Isak did. He pictures what it would have been like had Even come to Berlin two years ago. Then he buries those wonders.

Under his toast he finds a small collection of pills hiding beneath. At first he just stares at them. He looks up at the boys and then down again. No one is paying him attention - whatever they’re discussing now, Even’s head is nodding along enthusiastically, his eyes gleaming in a shade identical to whenever there’s discussion about something he’s interested in.

He grabs the pills crudely and shoves them all into his mouth at once, ignoring the urge to wince at their plastic-coated taste, and washes them down with the rest of his coffee. They’re never been under his toast before. He wonders why Martin hadn’t just given them to him like usual, and feels a spike of annoyance - what if they had gotten in his food and fucked it up? That cod liver oil one looked nasty as hell, and could have split open and ruined his eggs. Suddenly he's very irritated, despite this not having happened.

“Uh, sorry but…. did you hide these for me to find under my toast here are purpose?” It’s clear who he’s addressing by the language he’s using.

“Hide what under your toast?” Martin doesn’t bother turning around from where he’s making more coffee.

“My meds,” he says, “You know, he knows, right? I’m not hiding anything.”

“Oh...you _aren’t,_ are you?,” Martin clucks his tongue, shooting Isak a look that makes his gut flip unpleasantly. What was that supposed to mean? “Well. Whatever. I was just attempting to be discreet.”

“You don’t need to be discreet about a bunch of voodoo vitamins  and an antidepressant,” he retorts. “It’s not necessary.”

This causes Martin to turn around, hand on his hip. “Um, sorry, but who pissed in your cereal this morning? Jesus Christ. ‘Voodoo’ - ? Honestly, I can’t keep up with you. There are things I’m supposed to know and things I’m not and you know - I’m not your secret keeper, ma cher. I’m still traumatised that time you nearly had an aneurysm that time I accidentally told Yanny you like it when - ”

“Martini, do not finish that sentence, for fuck’s sake,” Isak burns just remembering the incident with Yanny. He’s starting to feel a little guilty, because Martin really does seem put off by his attitude, never mind how ordinary it is for Isak to be short before ten in the morning. “And it’s not a secret. And I am not _that_ dramatic, oh my God - ”

“Honey,” the tone of his voice stops him, “Let’s not even get into this one. I was just trying to look out for you - . Whatever, next time I’ll just dole them out like we’re reenacting a scene in Girl, Interrupted.”

Isak wants to press on, but the attempt at a joke stops him. Why is he bitching so much about it again? It’s just a bunch of pills under his fucking bread. Without wanting to admit it, he _is_ far more grumpy considering he’s had coffee, he’s had sleep, and Even’s sitting right fucking there.

In English he says, “Sure. But I’m not Angelina Jolie in that movie.”

Martin exhales dramatically, “Of course you aren’t. I’m the only one in this room who can pull off a fringe that short.”

Even’s eyes flicker over, but nevertheless he maintains an air of nonchalance as he finishes his breakfast. Clearly he doesn’t understand exactly what is being said, but there’s a niggling feeling Even knows more than he lets on. Isak feels a little bad about excluding him.

“Well,” Martin just shrugs, still speaking in German. “Anyway. I just didn’t know. It’s actually getting a little exhausting trying to keep up with your sensitive ass. It’s not like - you know how I feel about secrets.”

“That they’re for ‘trifling sad little bitches’?”

Like a switch flipped on their conversation, Martin smiles with a flutter of his lashes. The next words out of his mouth are for everyone to understand, adorned with a little smirk. “Oh, I love it when you quote me directly, babe. It just tickles me in the best way.”

Then he ruffles his hair, something he knows Isak doesn’t hate it as much as he pretends to - which is also probably why he does it in the first place. 

He runs his fingers along his head scarf, considering Isak and then passing him another little orange tablet. This time Even is watching. “Now that you’ve spent the entire morning being a sasspot, you’re going to do me a favour and take these without complaining. It’s folic acid and B12. Perfect for recovering from a hangover. Honestly, Isak, have you ever considered using that face mask I gave you  -

“Please don’t start in about beauty products now,” Isak refutes, “ I just woke up, you’re gonna give me a complex.”

Martin swoops down and presses his cheek against his, and the sudden onslaught of closeness causes him to slump down with a resistant groan.

“Of course, I don’t wanna give you a complex. Forgive me,” Martin presses a very wet (and very unnecessary kiss) to Isak’s cheekbone. “You look like the Sun God Apollo himself. Heavenly if I dare say. But perhaps approaching divine, if you were to do the face mask.”

“Martini,” Isak groans, only pretending to warn him off. “Fuck off about the face mask.”

“Okay, okay, whatever you say,” he drops it. “So, what are you two doing today?”

“We’re going to visit Bard,” Isak tells him. “And then Even has work to do.”

“Lord, you’re going all the way up there?”

“Why, is it far?” Even asks.

“I made the mistake of offering to meet Isak there _once_ because we had plans and he got himself roped into some bullshit his co-workers were going to - of course, I never would have if I had known it meant travelling across half the fucking _state_ \- ”

“That’s your own fault for thinking I went to Humboldt, and anyway, you were the one who wanted to see ‘how the Americans partied,’” Isak points out.

Martin rebuttals without hesitation, “That train wreck was entirely worth the ticket fare. What an experience - everyone at the college party was completely fucked by one, which was actually perfect because that’s when _our_ night started anyway. It’s as if no one’s told them that pep exists for this reason.  After, we took Isak to [Pornceptual](http://pornceptual.com/category/party/) for the first time, do you remember? Well, maybe it’s best you don’t really - “

“I already told you - you had plenty of warning. You knew what to expect from them,” he turns to Even. “Okay, so it is _a bit_ far. About an hour on the train - but it’s easy, and I can show you the library. Tobi will have my schedule and all my mail. We just have to take the S41 and then the tram for a bit.”

Even just smiles, his eyes crinkling. “Sounds good to me. I’ve been wondering where you spend all your time when you're supposedly 'working'.”

“Oh, look, how cute,” Martin deadpans, now looking at his phone. Several Whatsapp messages buzzing on through. “Your boyfriend is so supportive of your boring ass suburb adventures - ”

Isak nudges Martin’s knee under the table. He turns to him and makes a face. “You’re so annoying. The campus is small, fine, but fucking nice, and it’s where I go to university.”

Martin ignores his jib, instead pointing at his plate. He’s already clearing his own and grabbing his phone to leave. “Don’t forget to finish your grapefruit, grumpy pants. It’s good for you.”

“Thanks for breakfast, Martini!” Even calls after him. He sighs, leaning back against wall, his hair matting against the post behind him. He smiles, tight around the corners.“Hey, you.”

“Hi,” Isak says around a fat wedge of dripping fruit into his mouth. “What time do you have to be - uh, meeting ‘the artist’? Won’t you tell me his name?”

Even sighs. Now they can speak freely in Norwegian again, and in returns a comforting melody Isak never knew he loved so much before. “No, shan’t. I mean, it’s not even a secret, but you boys have made it so fun to keep it one.”

“Martin started that. I didn’t start that.” 

“I think I should go in by two, probably. But we have plenty of time. It’s just after nine now.”

Both of them tidy up. After, Isak sits in his spot and leans over the windowsill to look at the courtyard, a tickle of warm morning breeze passing while he rolls a cigarette. Just the tinkering of Even rinsing the last of the dishes, immersing with the crooning [on the radio](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tWG1VmvbM2M), something too vague to be truly familiar. That’s how this entire summer has felt to Isak; one beautiful drawn out blur, where the earth is lush and dreamy in every place touched by sun.

“So,” Even hands are hidden in the dish towel, and he wipes them over and over again. “Martin said something to me last night, and it struck me as kind of strange.”

That could be a number of things. Weird shit Martin says when he’s stoned and feels the need to let everyone know. Of course his brain points to the most embarrassing, or worst possible conclusions. A trickle of cold anxiety in his stomach, and then another internal voice up to combat: Martin would never tell him _that_ , you know he wouldn’t. And yet. And yet - “What’s up?”

Even shifts on his feet, and it’s this nervous gesture which serves to make Isak’s brain rush into overdrive. He’s hesitant to bring whatever it is up, which means at least a part of him is anxious, and that makes Isak feel anxious, to know that Even is battling something out in his head. There’s a moment of loaded silence, and then -

“Well,” Even shrugs with a practised nonchalance. Isak wants to bark at him, _can you just spit it out already?_ But he doesn’t. He just sits there, legs curled up underneath his arms, cigarette wafting between them. “Well, we were just chatting last night, and he made it seem like…”

Another heady pause. Now the song is over and someone's talking rapidly on the radio, and Isak’s cigarette still burning, and Even is looking at the towel in his hands, and it feels heady, until - “Er - well. Maybe it's nothing. But we were talking about next summer, and he made it seem like you had already agreed to stay another year. Which - well, I was under the impression you’d be back sooner. Like by January already. Or was that not the plan?”

He opens his mouth. He has no immediate response, and it prolongs the question in Even’s statement until it borders on painful, but he can’t figure out what he wants to say first. Words are turning corkscrew spirals in his head, excuses and reasons and lies all bubbling around in an abstract fashion. It’s hard to even fathom what January will be like, especially right now, in August. He closes his mouth again, and then -

“I _do_ want to come back after January,” this is the closest thing to the truth. “But it’s more complicated than that. I just don’t know if I can. Because...well...I mean. I - ”

“...Okay, fine. But Isak. Here’s the thing. When were you going to tell me that?” Even cuts him off, and _ah_ \- here’s what he’s really wants to say. “Like - I just don’t know what to think, really. What was the thought process here? Were you just going to let me know whenever you figured it out? ‘Cause - sorry, but when you left, I was under the impression that by Christmas, you’d be back. And then maybe. I don’t know. We’d maybe - I nearly told the girls about it. Imagine if I had, you know? They’re already all riled up about - “

“Please, can we not bring up your roommates for one fucking second, when we both know they already hate me? And don’t try and say they don’t, Even, when - ”

His tone turns curt and exasperated. “Yeah, I know, I fucking hear you - I know it’s not - but they do have a point, the same point every time actually. You leave, and I never know when you’re coming back.”

It’s as if all the air has left the kitchen.

“....this time I thought I knew. So like, when were you going to tell me? Once you figured it out? Were you gonna write me it? Send me a text? A phone call, ‘hey, sorry, guess I’m not coming back after all -’”

“It’s not like that, Even,” Isak intones flatly, feeling cornered. It hardens the edges of his voice. As if he’s just this careless, thoughtless asshole, by the way Even is talking. “It’s not. I wasn’t - I didn’t - ”

A animosity curls within him - fuck, he can practically hear Hemi trickling through, eyes peeled for discrepancies in his character, every comment just thinly veiled antagonism. It’s clear Even’s heard it too, and his vision blinks red for a second with how angry he is. “Fuck, I’m sorry, okay? Before I left in May, I told Martin I’d likely be staying. It’s just - it was hard, when you were getting so fucking excited, and everything in Oslo was so fucking _good,_ and I just - I wanted to come back as soon as I could. I wanted to make it happen. So we could - ”

“Yeah, I know,” he sounds disappointed, and it curdles in Isak’s gut, soured and uncomfortable. Even disappointed is terrible, terrible above anything else. “It’s just. It’s like. I’ve been trying really fucking hard to not be insecure. And to trust you with this - with everything we’ve got going. It’s just - Martin seems to know more about what you’re doing in your life than I do. Your school, your co-workers, your friends - your _plans_ , fuck, even your _meds_ -”

“Well, he fucking lives with me, and you don’t, okay?” he snaps, more embarrassed by the second. Of course Even hadn’t missed that. This is getting out of control, but all he does is run a hand through his hair, and then gestures with his open palm between them. They haven’t argued like this for - well, a long fucking time, and it grows like an intoxicating fire, gaining power and swallowing everything up, hotter and untamed the longer it goes on. Both of them stoking it, incapable of stopping.

“Look. I shouldn’t have gotten carried away, I should have realised it was gonna be more complicated than how I made it out to be, but sometimes it’s fucking difficult for me to figure out everything and just like - report back to you, when I don’t even know myself, all so you don’t have feel _insecure_ \- ”

“This isn’t about me being insecure - ”

“Even,” Isak says flatly, “Honestly. When is it not about that?”

He regrets saying it. He wishes he could pull the words back into his mouth and hold them there. So what if he wanted to say it, he shouldn’t have. Even just stares at him, at first disbelieving, and then his expression shutters into something much colder. It submerges Isak in ice.

“Wow,” Even says flatly. “Okay. I see. So it’s going to be like that, then,” he decides. “Fine. Well that’s just fucking fine. I’m just trying to figure out where we stand for the next six months, and you - you don’t even know, do you? For fuck’s sake, Isak. _Grow_ up. We’re not kids anymore. I don’t want to go down this road if it doesn’t lead anywhere.”

“Why does it always have to come to _this_ with you?” he spits. “I hate when you pull shit like ‘I don’t want to go down this road if it doesn’t lean anywhere,’ - it’s so fucking dramatic! You know how fucking crazy that shit makes me, but you do it anyway! Of course we’re - how can you even think that - after _everything_ , Even, honestly -"

Even just shakes his head as if he’s finished listening, a disgusted look on his face. “ _Crazy_ ,” he chuckles darkly, and shakes his head again. "You don't know what crazy is."

“No! You're right, and I'm sorry, look - Even - please, you _know_ what I mean - ”

“I can’t do this with you right now,” he mutters mutinously. He doesn’t look at Isak, instead running his hands over his face. “Honestly. I cannot. I don’t want it to ruin this trip for me. I won’t let you ruin it.”

“I’m not fucking ruining anything,” Isak rebukes, but he’s lost his fight, his voice catching. Isak swallows thickly, glaring at his profile, as if that will force Even to make eye contact with him. “Stop overreacting and saying shit like this. I said I’m sorry, and why don’t we just - _talk_ about it, and fucking stop - ”

“Overreacting - seriously? No! I’m - I’m sick of being the last to know anything,” he bites. Crosses his arms and shakes his head again, no doubt countering several arguments buzzing around in his brain. Isak can nearly taste their noise, the way they fill the room, carnivorous and without mercy. “You know what? I’m just gonna to go and do some work. Just. Text me later. If you want to talk.”

This spikes a new rush of anger in him. “You’re not going to come with me?” Isak demands, and chuckles derisively. "You're just going to leave, like that?"

“I said I can’t, with you. Not right now,” his tone is so awful and condescending. He leaves without a parting glance, and that’s how Isak knows they’re not just squabbling, that it is really is an argument, and he really is upset, and Isak - Isak doesn’t follow him into the living room, and he doesn’t unfold from his perch, knees aching, cigarette rank and dead in between his fingers. He doesn’t know what to call this feeling. How big it is. How much it feels like such a blow.

“Fine! Go do your shit.” he calls out bitterly. “And you can text _me_ if you want to talk.”

The front door slams, signalling his departure. He doesn’t know where or how the morning resulted in this, now residing in a daunting resentment in the blink of an eye, and it spurns a great hot release of rage in him.

“Martin!” he shouts. “Martin! Where are you!”

Scrambling to his feet, through the living room, and bursting through Martin’s bedroom door without a moment's hesitation. Martin looks up from in front of his vanity, blow dryer poised at an angle over his head. Isak blurts out, “Why the fuck did you tell Even I was staying until next year?”

He pauses his music, looking up in confusion. “What?”

“I said,” Isak grits his teeth, irritated with how nonplussed Martin is. Did he not hear them arguing in the kitchen? Does he not know what he’s done? “Why did you tell Even I was staying until next year? That's none of your business! For fucks sake, can’t you learn to keep your mouth fucking shut?”

“Wow, now let’s wait a minute, sister,” Martin baulks, “Take a fucking chill pill. How the hell was I supposed to know that he didn’t know?”

“Maybe you’re supposed, hmm, _I don’t know_ , fucking to ask me first!”

“Look,” Martin stands up now, eyebrows raised high on his forehead. “Please explain to me how I was supposed to know it wasn’t common knowledge?! We’ve fucking discussed this. You know how much I _hate_ this kind of shit. I don’t know what’s a secret, what’s not, and it’s getting really fucking old - ”

“This isn’t like - this wasn’t a secret! It’s not,” he insists, “I’m fucking pissed because you can’t help yourself. You’re always interfering with someone’s shit!”

Martin throws down his hairdryer in a loud clatter on his wood floor, glaring at Isak with his mouth drawn apart in a scandalised protest. “I’m not trying to _interfere_ with you and Even _,_ oh my _God_ -”

The thoughts are peeling through Isak’s brain at such a warped speed, leaving little time for him get a handle on his emotions. Mostly he’s so fucking overwhelmed, and ready to make someone pay for what’s just happened. “Well maybe you didn’t mean to, but you did. And now everything is fucked up thanks to you -

“Oh, honestly - ”

“ - now he’s angry at me, and he thinks I’ve been lying to him, and what if he doesn’t - he thinks I’m keeping things - ”

“Let’s get real here, babe! Did you ever think that _eventually_ you’d have to let one of us know what you’re actually doing? Even seems to think you’re coming back in five months - and how embarrassing for me, when I thought it was more than a fucking year - ” Martin cuts him off, his face distorted with real anger. “I wasn’t even gonna bring this shit up, because God knows you have trust issues up to your eyeballs. You ever consider that it’s _not_ Even and I who are the problem - ”

“ - seen you do this countless times to your friends, fucking meddling in their shit, saying things you shouldn’t, things that are in confidence - “

Martin doesn’t allow any it. “Just listen to yourself! You call this meddling? How dare I tell Even something I thought was true? How dare I disrupt your future home-making fantasy with my practical reality, the one where you signed _a fucking contract_ , and you told me, back in May, you told me you were staying - ” he takes a deep breath and starts in again. “You don’t wanna let me in, fine. You don’t give a shit, fine. Fine, fine fine. I thought we were friends, you _bitch_.”

“Of course I give a shit!” Isak exclaims hotly, his voice dangerously high strung as he backpedals. “Stop making it out like I don’t give a shit! You know I do, this is important to me, I - that’s exactly why I wanted to talk to Even about it _myself_ , so this wouldn’t happen - ”

“But you didn’t? And now it has happened?” Martin asks incredulously. “And now you’re going to have to fix your own fuck up!”  

“It wouldn’t _be_ a fuck up if - ”

“Isak, do yourself a favour and shut up and fucking listen to me,” he snaps. “It doesn't matter. He would have found out sooner or later. That boy is no fucking dummy, you understand? You think he doesn't notice all the times you're so fucking irritable because you can't sleep, but God fucking forbid you let anyone anyone close enough to be there for you, or Jesus, talk to us - " 

“You don’t know what he knows and doesn’t know,” Isak just scoffs, condescending. He has the distinct feeling this argument is veering into another direction, and the more anxious he grows the more vicious he is too. “You’ve known him all about five fucking seconds - ”

“Well, I certainly got that impression when he started snooping around for info concerning that fucking piss-take fight with that _piece of shit_ at B.- Which is less than you - actually, you know what, _fuck you_ for that, by the way. It was just so great for me to hear you bailed, and left _me_ to deal with that mess and the bartenders and bouncers and _drama_ and you know, the worst thing about it? I’m guessing Even probably asked you about that too, didn’t he, and you lied to him, didn’t you - ”

“Martin, don’t - ”

“- makes a liar out of me, Isak, and it really fucking makes me mad, because the fact is you _still_ won’t talk about it with me, or with him, and you’re too fucking scared to acknowledge what happened, and how fucked up it was - ”

“Shut up!” he hisses. “Seriously, Martin, I’m not fucking kidding,” Isak warns him.

“ - it’s fucked up to me that you can’t trust anyone. It's actually quite fucking sad. And that’s how you’ll lose him. Not because I said anything. But because in the end, you’ll say _nothing_.”

“Fuck you, Martin,” he yells. His curses in Norwegian. “ _Fucking hell._ ”

Here lands the final blow, here is where all his thoughts to go haywire, here is wanting to run his hands through his hair and pull all it of his head. He just stares at him with a biting mixture of rage and humiliation. His face burns as if he’s been held up to a fire.

Martin looks a little shaken by what just happened. “Wait,” he steps forward, “Isak, wait - ”

“No, fuck off!” he yells viciously, wiping at his running nose. "Honestly, fuck you - " 

For a second they both stare at each other, Isak’s laboured breathing the only sound in the room. He falters for a second and Martin makes another move, like he’s going to step closer. Isak backs up. “Seriously, stay the hell away from me.”

Martin just shakes his head with a disgusted sneer, hurling his favourite french insult at Isak's retreating back. Not for the first Isak wishes he didn’t understand what it means. He makes sure to slam every door on his way out.

 

-

 

MANDAG 14:22

 

The entire journey to Bard and back he stewed mutinously over the arguments with both Even and Martin. He kept looping back to the same points of outrage, over and over again: it’s all a bit hypocritical, coming from them. Isn't it?

Isak’s no idiot. Both Even and Martin share the same quality of capriciousness towards life, flying off the seat of their pants for any whim or dalliance they deem interesting enough. Even’s become embroiled in so many fantasies over the years that it’s a joke between them: now, darling, don’t get too carried away. It forced Isak to become the less fun of the two, always pulling him back from the brink of falling headfirst into some half-shaped idea or dream.

But it’s not about that. The point is, Isak's never held it against him.

Of course his thoughts ping-pong back to the argument with Martin, a double pile of shit raining down on top of him. Why couldn’t he just understand it was all just bad communication and indecisiveness? How much of a hypocrite is he? The amount of times Martin has changed his mind or switched his plans from just the slightest sway in his mood is too numerous for Isak to count. He does so without ever thinking he’s responsible for the consequences; consequences be damned. And yet when Isak does it, Martin accuses him of not caring.  

He does care. They both know it. Never before have they argued like this, and Isak knows that it’s his fault, that he picked the fight, he ramped up the stakes, he was the one to burst in, already yelling -

And Martin - well. He served him, didn’t he? Spelled it out plainly what he thought and Isak, he’s - very aware of how pathetic he can be already. How dare Martin dredge up every shitty thing that's happened to Isak in the last six months like Isak doesn't already know? Somehow, it still hurt to hear out of someone else’s mouth. Secretive, sneaky snake-like Isak. It's almost worse than the fight with Even: straight to the centremost point of Isak’s flaws. All these secrets he keeps, like little preserved jars of poison, clinking around in his head.

Further daunting is the stirrings of paranoia it's caused. Is it true that Even suspects Isak is keeping things from him? Does he wonder if - or _when_ \- Isak is lying? How many times did Even say to him: anything you want to tell me, I’m here, no matter what? Isak never understood what he meant by that.

Did it mean: I know something’s going on with you but I’ll wait for you to bring it up? Or did it mean: that I know it's been a shit year and if in general something should arise, let me know?

Knowing Even, it might neither. He’d probably just say something cryptic, like hey, I mean, I figured we brought some new ghosts in this room, maybe we should introduce them to each other - ?

Most of the time, Isak doesn’t feel like he’s keeping anything from anyone - rather, he’s protecting them from when things are particularly ugly. Those times where he can only fathom handling it alone.

Their summer transformed the weeks in Oslo into one suspended dream. One where, yes, things hurt, but at least Even was there. Even’s sheer proximity, lying next to him at night, the perpetual swoon which engulfed them for two months buffered all the aches, and everything felt familiar and free and comforting. His friends were there. Jonas was just down the hall, watching movies with Isak when he couldn’t sleep, rolling joints so he could try to. It helped to feel a little less lost amongst it all.

The possibilities of everything all felt within reach when he was home. Even hinted at Christmas and it was so easy for Isak to obsess over it. They’d paint pictures of a future - Oslo in January. This vision runs deep and wades in his desire: the city sandwiched between a endless dark sky and blankets of snow, and they’d walk up to the Sagene Church together, a full year since they'd last met there. Even just behind the _Ung Mann_ statue, same black coat. Same lovely, comforting smile. They could visit his mother. Lay down one of those spruce wreaths she liked during the holidays. They could do it all again the year after too. It could even be some kind of tradition. It became all too tantalising to refuse.

Understandably for Even this all felt much more real than he truly considered. His fault lies in all the times he didn’t correct Even, or confess to him what he suspected to be true. He just continued to get swept up. Now it makes him terribly guilty. No matter what he wished to believe in the heat of one long rosy summer. Isak falling in love meant everything felt so possible. But possibilities - especially ones brought upon by love, contain fallacies too.

A part of him wishes the weather spoiled into a dismal low hanging darkness, one which pairs adequately with his mood, but the sun remains a conflagrant orb burning into the back of Isak’s head. He disembarks the M21, the air a sweltering push-pull between bustling pedestrians, cyclists and traffic. Down Sophienstraße he passes his favourite [mural](https://igx.4sqi.net/img/general/600x600/2289849_GUxen4-3n6qvjtNrVpE8qVmQjWVmFXFNZsRw0IjJQEA.jpg) in Mitte, on the side of an apartment building. He is fond of staring at the expanse of faded green greyness, the willowy lettering half effaced by ivy. He’s passed it a countless amount of times for months.

After internally arguing with imaginary versions of Martin, Even and himself, Isak is little more than a miserable existence condemned by emotional lethargy. It lurks in a dark cloud around him as he walks to Sabine’s office, tucked inside a courtyard adjacent to the church. He walks through and buzzes up.

There’s a vindictive voice in his head that reminds him he wouldn’t have actually finished on time in January, especially not with the grades from this term. He may have to retake the entire year; the pile of mail in his bag will for sure illustrate just how much is salvageable and what he’ll need to repeat. Shame is awash within him.

It all seems to remind him of his father, and how stern and disapproving he’d be; how he’d probably expect Isak to fail anyway, as he's always been shit at handling stress, and he always manages, somehow, to fuck things up for himself. _If only_ he had been a little more responsible, things would be different - and this red anger blooms inside of him again. The only reaction Isak can think of is to submit to it; rage, turned inward, feels suspiciously like shame.

The reception before Sabine's office is exactly the same every time. A small sofa on one side, with an array of outdated magazines to choose from. A dusty cup and a tap water jug. A poignantly placed boxes of tissues, for any residual tears. Or maybe in case someone is unwell? A sniffling nose? Isak’s spent too long on that sofa waiting for his turn, ruminating over it.

The burn out in his brain after this morning made him feel a thousand years old, and with spite, he turned his phone off, knowing he wouldn’t be able to resist messaging Even, and they’d definitely start to argue over text. That would just evolve into something ugly and then there’d be evidence of it for him to read over and over again later. He’s been there before. It’s not a nice hole to dig himself out of.

Now, he turns it back on. Immediately his phone buzzes with updates from Jonas and Magnus on Instagram, several new photos sent to the Whatsapp group chat, and two text messages from Even. He opens them in favour of everything else.

EVEN 09:28 // Listen, I’m sorry to storm out like that...

EVEN 09:32 // But I just got so upset. Because this is never going to work if you can’t be honest.

It flashes again in his brain. As subtle as a siren caterwauling down the street. It’s like he’s just a bloody pounding heart and tunnel vision zeroing in: This is never going to work if you can’t be honest. 

This is never going to work

This is never going to work

This is never going to work

(He imagines Even saying to him: Look. We might as well give up now.)

“Hello, Isak,” Caroline greets him. “Give me one moment to fetch your session notes.”

He nods. Rather abruptly everything is stifling, and his face is burning up, and when he tries to swallow, his Adam’s apple feels like it’s three sizes larger than before, catching against the back of his throat, and pinpricks of sweat start to emerge from his hairline -

“Okay, here we go  - _wha_ \- Isak,” Caroline is already halfway rising from her chair. “Isak?”

Everything’s fine, he wants to say. But he can’t catch a deep enough breath to spit it out. “No - I’m just - a little - _ah_ \- ”

“Okay, why don’t we sit back down for a moment,” her hands are so gentle and cold when she grabs his arms, guiding him back to the sofa. He slumps down in an unceremonious pile and Caroline’s worried face comes into view above him. Isak just shakes his head and says nothing. She offers him a tissue. But he doesn’t want it. She offers him the dusty glass of water. He doesn’t want that either. He wants to pull whatever is inside of him out and throw it down on the cream carpet. It feels alive. He wants to stamp it out under his feet until it dies a visceral death. It feels suffocating. He hates it.

Caroline disappears. He could care less where she’s gone. Isak tries breathing through his nose. Even taught him how to do this. Even’s taught him how to do a lot of things.  Just the reminder forces the flailing panic to rise up again, stronger this time. Don’t fucking go there, he scolds himself, running both his hands over his face. Just don’t.

But how is he supposed to avoid it? It rings in his head like a flood light going off. This is never going to work. This is never going to work. He hasn’t afforded himself the option of it failing again. How could he come back from this? He can’t. He refuses to. The last time he tried to cut Even out of his life, he destroyed his sense of self. He thought it must be the only way. There was too little substance remaining; half his limbs shucked into the flames, along with every song, or book, or piece of art - along with his heart - along with his lungs, his brain, his mouth - all of it gone too. It was pitiful to live life as a ghost.

This is what he knows, down in the darkest shadows of his soul: After Even, Isak was never the same. And how long did it take him to resemble a person again? Long enough. He remembers this now, for the first time in forever.

Well, fuck it. How does one cope with a forest fire? Just let it all burn. Until it’s nothing but ash and bare bones of what once was.

“Isak,” a familiar voice forces his eyes open again, and he focuses in on Sabine’s face, looming over him. “Hey. You’re having a panic attack. Can you breathe for me? Just - don’t try for a deep breath, just a shallow one, okay? I know it feels like you're dying, but that's just your brain - just a shallow breath, come on, Isak. You can do it.”

 _Now’s not the fucking time, Sabine,_  he wants to spit at her, hating how encouraging and calm she is and overwhelmed with how vicious he wants to be in return. Wishing he could take it out on her everything upended in his life; all of it just feels so fucked up. He is so fucked up.

Sabine wouldn’t take it. She’d only respond to his cruelty the way she’s always responded to it: _that’s the best you got?_ Paired with a blank, unimpressed gaze.

“Just in through nose, out through mouth,” she sits across from him on the little coffee table. Nodding in that calm, controlled manner he’s become so acquainted with. He even likes it. In a way, her lack of emotions comforts him. He doesn’t know any other women her age. Perhaps she was born around the same time as his mother. Perhaps they grew up liking the same things. Don’t go there either, he chastises himself. Redirect. Focus on Sabine. Just her face. Her green cardigan. Her auburn hair. She’s breathing in through her nose, out through her mouth. He follows her lead.

Eventually it all starts to ebb away. His chest stops heaving and a soreness seeps in its wake . His bones are deadened, and vaguely he’s aware there’s a wet spot on the sofa now where he's been sweating profusely through his t shirt. There’s not an ounce of energy in him to be embarrassed about it just now. He blinks up at the ceiling in patterns of three. There’s paint splatter when the walls must have been a different colour. He tries to focus on it, but the corners of the room crawl closer still.

What the fuck, he thinks, What the actual fuck is going on?

“I’ve got some time in between sessions,” Sabine taps the end of his knee. Caroline still hovering behind her. “Come on, come up, let’s have a chat.”

“No, I’m fine, I’m just tired,” these excuses tumble out of his mouth without any thought to them. “I got my notes, I should go.”

Sabine shakes her head. “At least for ten minutes.”

They’ve been at this crossroad before. Days where the idea of talking to someone for an hour made Isak want to curl up underneath his duvet and never resurface. The first time he cancelled ended up being the only time - once Sabine caught on and adjusted her tactics. _If you don’t want to speak the whole time, you don’t have to. But come at least for the first ten minutes_ , she’d say.

He knows it’s just plain reverse psychology, the kind of shit you teach kids to get them to what you want. And yet every time he would agree to ten minutes. And then ten more. Until it became an hour. Until it started to dribble out of him, slow and sad like molasses on those sparse spring afternoons. He’s tested Sabine a lot this year. Tried to push her away. Tried to pick arguments just for argument's sake. Many times he’s openly taciturn and other times downright surly. Every session she tells him to come back the following week. At least, she’d say, for ten minutes.

She raises an eyebrow at him. He follows her to her office.

 

-

Til EVEN 16:54 // It’s okay. I hear you. When you’re ready, we should talk.

-

 

[MANDAG 17:05](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sdnD09M5uj0)

The step in his gait still assumes a free flowing quality, as if he’s not quite attached to his body. Sabine calls this dissociation. Sometimes all Isak can do is count it as a victory. He doesn’t know how to explain it.

He meanders along the Neukölln canal without any aim to return back to the flat any time soon. It feels rather impossible to move any faster. The benches along the canal are flocked by groups of people smoking or drinking, their noise a comforting, inconsistent babble. The sun trickles down on the water, creating glimmerings of light along the underside of bridge. He’s walked along this canal every day for the last six months, maybe more than once a day, and yet the light hitting the stones creates kaleidoscope colours like he’s in an alternate universe.

Case in point: Isak strolls along the canal with a stack of mail in his bag. His damn university email has been fucked all summer, so he took the day to go up to Bard and fetch it himself. When he arrived home, he’d open his grades and tack them up on the fridge. Even would emerge from his studio, covered in paint and smudging colour along the wings of his cheeks when he greeted Isak with a kiss. They’d cook dinner despite the heat, absentmindedly shimmying to whatever was on the radio. Isak would point to the calendar. Look, he’d say, as Even topped off their sparkling wine. This marks nearly two years since we moved to Berlin. Even would twirl him around. _How proud I am of you_ , he’d whisper into Isak’s temple. _How proud I am of us._ Those kinds of sentiments wouldn’t send Isak’s gut into a flutter of butterflies anymore, but he wouldn’t expect them to, not after so many years of being together. He wouldn't know any different.

Later, he’d call his mother and recite his grades to her. Mostly A’s, a few A- here and there. I’m eating fine, mamma. Yes, Even’s good. Yes, he’s finally getting somewhere with the gallery owner in Kreuzberg. Maybe it would be one of her good days. Or maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe it’d just be an okay day, one where she was proud of him but didn’t feel like talking. It wouldn’t matter, because there would always be a new day. One thousand possibilities held in each of them, like infinite pockets of time. When they said goodbye, he’d remember to tell her that he loved her. Just because he could.

Or, case in point: Isak strolls along the canal with a stack of mail in his bag. His damn university email has been fucked all summer, so he took the day to go up to Bard and fetch it himself. He would forget his keys, and be forced to wait around all evening for Martin. Maybe he’d wait it out here, right on the water, a beer between his legs and a joint rolled for his choosing. Maybe he’d be thumbing through the end of his summer reading list in prep for his final year, taking breaks every so often to scroll through Instagram. Eventually a text would come sailing through. _Honey, I’m home. And I’ve brought Sahara Imbiss._

He’d arrive to find Martin humming along to the radio, a spread of dishes eclipsing the entire surface of their tiny table. Isak would hold out his grades with a dumb smirk on his face, proud and a little smug, _well I didn’t end up flunking that German Idealism class after all. Guess your translations are as good as you say_ . And Martin would cluck his tongue and he’d saunter over and kiss Isak, up on his tiptoes to do so. He’d point to the calendar on the wall. _You can show off your good grades when we see your mother in two weeks time, and she’ll be so overjoyed that she’ll forget all about the fact that I’m dating her so_ n, Martin would quip and Isak would smile like a reflex, but inside, his universe would glitch. Just for a second. _You aren’t the first boy I’ve brought home to her,_ but almost immediately he’d push that thought out of his head. It’s been years since he’s thought about Oslo in regards to his home. Even would materialise in his head like muscle memory,  like a feeling he’d long forgotten. The last time they saw each other Isak had just turned nineteen. They said goodbye under a red light on platform at Jernbanetorget station. It all seemed like a lifetime ago anyway.

Or, case in point: Isak strolls along the canal with a stack of mail in his bag. His damn university email has been fucked all summer, so he took the day to go up to Bard and fetch it himself. In this universe, on every single morning, the sun erupts in an explosion of red, but the meaning is lost to Isak. In this universe, he had time to say goodbye to his mother. It this universe, it was still not enough, and when he buried her, he buried a part of himself too. In this universe, there’d only the shadow of Even left. The faint tr inklings of a love that once was. What was it that Isak used to do to make him laugh so hard? It hardly mattered now. In this universe, when Martin stopped him outside of Humboldt that day in March, Isak shrugged him off. He wouldn’t think someone like Martin would want to be friends with Isak anyway.

He would stop and search for credence in the ripples of shimmering water. His thoughts would entertain opening all his mail, grades included, and upending it all into the canal. His thoughts would entertain upending himself in the canal too. Would his body flail in an attempt to swim once he hit the water? Or would he know going down to lock his joints tightly together with the hope he’d sink straight to the bottom? They say your vision goes first, which would probably be a blessing. All that darkness down there. It would take a few days for someone to fish him out, if he didn’t wash ashore immediately. The coroner would think, well, what a shame, he was only twenty-one. But selfishly, he would be relieved: at least there’d be no family listed on his records to notify. It could have been years before his father noticed Isak was missing at all.

Fuck. He’s lost himself. Here’s what he’s learned about thinking in parallels. When you’re weak in the moment like this, all of it becomes too painful to suspect the what-if’s and could-have-been’s festering like cancerous tumours in the centre of his chest. So he leaves all of it there, on the bridge overlooking the the south side of Neukölln. It reminds him of the protagonist of his favourite [novel](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Slaughterhouse-Five#Literary_techniques). He wouldn’t ever do anything to save himself either, always hurdling fatalistically unto death’s door any chance he saw, only to fail again and again. Every new death in his life starting with the same damn line. And so it goes.

Eventually, he makes it back and climbs up enough stairs that by the time he makes it to the door, he’s already broken another sweat. All he wants to do now is lie down. He sees his bed beckoning through his doorway, and in he goes, stumbling over a pair of Even’s shoes, tripping over his instep and spilling his shit onto the floor. His session notes now fanning out into twenty separate pages, an empty water bottle, his keys and a splay of envelopes spreading across the floor.

He just stares down at it all. A small orange envelope lies on top of a mass of white ones. He hadn’t seen it the first time so he picks it up and flips it over. It’s his name with the university's address on it. He turns it over again. No return.

He sits on his bed, considering it wearily. For a second, he hopes this is just one of Even’s roundabout romantic gestures - but it’s not Even’s writing. And Even’s been here all week, and he’d usually allude to _something_. He runs his fingers over the pen indents, the slanted looping i’s and e’s familiar, and yet no one he knows well enough to know their handwriting comes to mind. The stamp is a German one. Does he open it?

A great sigh heaves within him. Fuck it. What’s one more surprise today? He tears it open. He finds more of that slanty, looping lettering. He starts to read before abrupt he stops again. Wait. A beat later he realises the letter is in Norwegian, and his mind is racing. Wait. Wait. What the hell is this?

For the briefest second he wonders if it’s from his mother. Of course It can’t be. The writing is similar but it’s not her. He’s read enough of her journals to know this. She couldn’t have sent from inside the country. And not to mention, he thinks darkly, she’s been dead since January. But you never know. God works in mysterious ways sometimes.

At the very end is a name tucked in the corner where they likely ran out of room. Isak reads it three times before he actually realises it’s from his sister. The L-e-a-h is one twirling loop after another.

Of course. Somehow it makes sense, in this bizarre parallel where nothing makes sense anymore. He falls backwards onto his pillow, kicking off his shoes and rolling away to face the window, card held out in front of him. 

> Dear Isak,
> 
> Happy Birthday! I hope this card reaches you in time for your twenty-first. Seems like yesterday to me that you were turning twelve.
> 
> I know this is long overdue, and I understand if you’re angry. I should I have done a lot of things differently, and I want to say how sorry I am. Last month I was visiting home, and Dad told me that Marianne passed away. Isak, I am so sorry I wasn’t there. Please believe me when I said I had no idea. If I had known I would have come straight away. And I can’t really forgive dad right now for not going, and not telling me when it happened. I can’t imagine how you must feel. It’s so unforgivable. I’m not speaking to him right now. I am so sorry you were alone through all of this.
> 
> There’s so much more I want to say. How sorry I am. But only if you want. And honestly, I really don’t have to say shit if you want either. I’m here to listen too. I’m here to be your sister again and to make up for some lost time. All of it I should have done a long time ago. But I guess this moment is better late than never.
> 
> I hope this letter will reach you at Bard. I have no doubt you’re doing amazing there and I hope you’ve enjoyed Berlin so far. I love this city, and it would amazing to show you my life here. I’d love for you to meet my partner. Next week we’re moving into a new apartment in Prenzlauer Berg - this is my number if you want to message me, and this will be our new address.
> 
> Happy Birthday Isak!
> 
> Love you,
> 
> Lea
> 
> P.S. Do you remember when we were little, and on Sunday’s after church she’d be cooking a big supper, still in her church clothes, and she’d put on her music and let us dance on her feet? I put that album on the other day, the one she loved so much. If you look up Neil Young’s Harvest Moon, you’ll probably remember, even though you were like four.
> 
> I know it’s been years since she and I last spoke, but I loved her as if she was my own mother. I decided to go to [Sjømannskirken](https://www.sjomannskirken.no/historien-til/berlin/) - it’s the Norwegian church charity in West Kreuzberg and donate in her name. I know that cannot replace me missing her funeral. But I wanted to do something for her. And now I want to do something for you.

Isak reads it a second time. He runs his finger over the writing again, where she flourished the _I_ on his name. He closes the card to look at the front and sees it’s a _My Neighbour Totoro_[illustration](https://www.coolcards.co.uk/acatalog/my-neighbour-totoro-card.jpg). It stirs a feeling in him so wistful and sad his eyes close.

He clutches the card to his chest. There’s a knot loosening in him; something is slipping undone, and the longer he lies there, the quieter everything is. Deep breaths again. In through the nose, out through the mouth. She used to write him cards for his birthday and Christmas. She’d always include a long afterthought at the end, no different to the one he’s holding now. Sometimes the familiarity of something is so startling and so painful all one can do is hold it very close.

He pictures his sister when she was still really clear in his memory. It was the summer of his twelfth birthday. He remembers realising she was suddenly an adult. Finishing her degree, and moving in with her boyfriend, and then her bags were packed, and she was leaving, and she was hugging him so tightly, whispering, love you, love you, Isak - he remembers not letting her see him cry, and just hugging her and mumbling a goodbye and not asking when she was going to come back -

She was eight when their father married Isak’s mother. Ten when Isak arrived, the ultimate finalisation of a second marriage cementing into reality. On weekdays she was with her mother, but every weekend like clockwork, she stayed with them. It must have been hard for Lea at first. A child with a young bright eyed stepmother, a brand new baby brother, attending an unfamiliar church on Sunday’s, like one perfect little family.

As a child, Isak’s desire for attention from his sister was just short of idolisation. She was just so much older - and they only saw each other on weekends; the briefness felt special and exciting. Lea seemed to know everything there was to know. How to read big kid books. How to ride a bike. How to get an extra sweet from their father. Anything she was into, he wanted to be into too.  As a teenager, she was obsessed with animated films and anime, showing Isak anything from One Piece to Sailor Moon to Studio Ghibli films. Isak was probably seven or eight at the time when she brought over My Neighbour Totoro.  

His sister was about to graduate high school, but she’d still come around most Saturdays and Sundays, a handful of those movies for them watch together in the living room, eating pizza on tv trays and getting each a little extra ice cream for dessert. She’d never protest - not once, when he’d ask to watch Totoro every time, no matter how boring it must have been for her. Lea was like that with Isak about a lot of things.

_Seems like yesterday to me that you were turning twelve._

The year he turned twelve, she bought him a Totoro poster for his room. He remembers thinking that it wasn’t exactly what he wanted but used to be their _thing,_ and it was far cooler than the lame gifts his parents got him anyway. He remembers blowing out the candles on a cake his mother made him with blue icing, reading 12SAK. He remembers wishing his parents would stop fighting. He remembers wishing Lea would stay a little longer. None of it came true. It was the last birthday she’d be at.  Now he just wishes he had that poster still.

By the time she turned twenty-one, their family had already been tampered with the beginning stages of rot. His mother quit her job at the university after a dispute with another professor, a debacle which seemed to last months, and she’d begun to spend hours at her computer, the bedroom door closed and all the lights off in the house. His father took a promotion with a corner window and a secretary and many late nights at the office. All of a sudden the absence of everyone became overwhelming apparent. It felt like it happened overnight.

Lea must have been aware, at least more than Isak was, that his mother was growing unpredictable in her moods and behaviour. Her obsessive fixation over certain things. Her quick turn to anger or fear. Isolating herself in her room for long hours. It crept in like a shadow on the wall. They all just have assumed it was just a phase, or the unwelcome consequences of too stress from the university ordeal. If his sister suspected anything as serious as the actual diagnosis, he wonders if she would have left anyway. Maybe she would have. Would Isak have blamed her? He tried to the first time.

He can’t picture Lea at that funeral. Standing there while his mother was lowered into the ground. The only way he can fathom it is if he’s twelve again and she’s twenty and she’s holding really close like she’s trying to protect him. She was always trying to protect him, up until the day she left. He wished he’d said something to her - anything - but it's been so long. Isak assumed she knew and didn’t bother showing up, just like their father. He assumed she didn’t care. 

He’s not sure who’s worse, him or his father. It devastates him to think so, but when he looks at it this way, it feels undeniable. How unfair of him to assume she wouldn’t want to be there? And how obvious to him now that it isn’t true? Isak can’t deny his own part in all of it. 

It was never the same after he left home. He stopped responding. He avoided the emails Lea sent him from time to time. They’d just be moved automatically into his archive, unopened. He avoided replying to his mother's texts, and he avoided visiting her unless he had to. He avoided new family gatherings after his father remarried. And then once he started university, he was avoiding Oslo altogether, and that was that. As far as Isak was concerned, there was no such thing as the Valtersens anymore. 

This is the question he finds himself asking again and again: how much of it was his family abandoning him, and how much of it was he abandoning them?

His eyelids are so heavy, and the lazy evening sun shows no signs of relieving him from the impact of it’s heated gaze. His phone is on the floor with all the rest of his shit behind him, and he has no energy to go and see if Even’s texted back. If Isak knows anything, it’ll be a little while yet. So he closes his eyes, hands rummaging around sheets still mussed from the morning. His hand searches blindly for last night’s wet spot only to find just the filmy remnants of it left. It stirs a despondent stomach ache in him, a yearning for this all to be over with already.

Again his brain is playing the arguments on a reel in is head again. Even, his cold voice, his biting disappointment. Martin and Isak screaming at each other. Then it flips back to his sister. And his mother. And Even again. And Martin. Again and again until his head hurts. Isak opens his eyes and whispers very quietly to the world: enough now. Enough.

He opens his journal and slips the card on the inside pocket and places it on the window sill. Just breathes. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He closes his eyes again. 

-

[MANDAG 19:12](https://open.spotify.com/album/440NQq2LQcNJsM78IW7Luf)

 

There’s a dip in the mattress. At first, his sleep-addled brain assumes it’s Even crawling over to him, but when he rolls over and opens his eyes, it’s Martin, head pillowed under his hand. They look at each other.

“What time is it?” Isak asks finally, rubbing his gummy mouth with the back of his hand.

Martin shrugs. “Just after seven.”

He looks kind of uncomfortable, and his voice is uncharacteristically gentle when he asks, “Have you - have you talked to Even?”

Isak shakes his head. “No,” he answers. “Not yet.”

“Oh,” Martin says. “Well. He’s probably working. I’m sure when he’s done…”

“Yeah,” Isak nods. He stares at a damp stains in the corner of the room, where something probably leaked from the floor above and left geode looking patterns along his ceiling. “Er….Martin,” he swallows. “I’m sorry.”

“No...it’s okay, I - ”

Isak disagrees. “No, it’s not. Just let me say sorry.”

He levels him with a sceptical look, preparing himself for Martin to resist. But Martin accepts with a slackened posture. “Fine. Then I guess I forgive you.”

Isak scoffs with narrowed eyes. “You either do or you don’t. And it’s not like you have to  right this second.”

“Oh, stop. Of course I forgive you.”

He can hear his own throat swallowing in his ears. “I overreacted,” he says, thinking of his conversation with Sabine again. “And lost my temper. Because…I guess, I get stressed out when it comes to Even-related stuff. So I …yeah, just, freaked out. But it wasn't your fault, and you're right. So. Yeah.”

“Well, I guess if we’re going to like, ‘go there’...” Martin purses his mouth, inhaling deeply and frowning. “You know I would never say anything to Even behind your back. I mean, you know I wouldn’t, right? About the shit that went down in the spring, or your meds or whatever else. Seriously, Isak.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” he nods. Martin hates secrets more than anything, but that doesn’t mean he won’t keep them for the right person. Isak also knows this. He wonders why it hasn’t concerned him before now that putting Martin in this position would be stressful for him. Another nudge of guilt slicking his insides.

“I just got upset because…” Martin hedges carefully. “Because he was so sure you were leaving in January, I thought...I don’t know. I didn't wanna say anything to him but I couldn't help getting I really pissed. I know we’re just roommates, and I know Even’s your boyfriend....” he falters, mouth twisting again. Pursing over his teeth. “ Well, I’ve known there’s an expiration on this living situation ever since you told me about him. So that's that. And yes.  I know I can be a selfish bitch. And you can be a grumpy bitch. And when someone yells at me I can’t _not_ yell back.”

“I know you can’t,” he smiles a little.

“But...I think what I said was a bit  harsh, ma cher,” Martin admits sheepishly, and it’s little awkward, him being this shy. “I felt terrible all day. I just got my feathers got ruffled. But I shouldn’t - you _are_ a good friend, and you _do_ give a shit - ”

“What you said wasn’t a lie, though, either,” Isak frowns. “I know you don’t tell lies if you can help it.”

“No,” Martin agrees, a little regretful. “I don’t.”

They could leave everything here between them. Isak is touched, always touched by Martin’s insistence on their friendship. To be shut out at every corner and still to come back knocking. Arms laden with ways to entice Isak out of his shell.  It’s just so typical of him to say nothing at all, to let it sink into the abyss of other things Isak smothers in quiet.

But now this quiet really fucking annoys him. It’s so insecure, this silence. What does he gain from it, staying on his island? He used to think that if he ever admitted he needed someone, it would be in that exact moment they’d turn his back on them.

So he doesn’t keep quiet this time. He gives in. He says what he feels.

“I think you’re my best friend, Martini,” he says. “Living here has been my favourite thing about Berlin.”

“You can’t pretend we don’t make an excellent team. I mean, who else would test out all my recipes with me? And not just the good ones, either?” Martin agrees, a little wet chuckle breaking the tension. “How would I find someone to keep all the plants up? These girls are work, you know, not just anyone can do it.”

Isak smiles. “Well...I know my diet would be severely lacking in good techno and vitamin c,” he jokes along.

“You know how I knew we were going to be good friends?” he asks a beat later.

“No, I don’t,” Isak shakes his head. Tries to think back on a moment and while there are many, he'd never try and predict what Martin is about to say. “Should I be scared? God. We've - "

“No, no. Come on, it’s not - “ Martin rolls his eyes, huffing and readjusting his chin on his hand. “No. It was before you left for summer, when we were watching that movie with your friends. What was it called? Pride. You know that scene, when they return to London, and they're about to march in the parade? I looked over, and you were crying.”

“You were crying too,” Isak protests, insistent. It’s true. He remembers seeing little tear tracks illuminated under the kitchen light where it hit the sofa.

Isak can't ever forget the first time he watched that film. Jonas has suggested it, but half-way through the movie, Magnus had passed out, and Madhi was hungry again, so they all left back to their Airbnb. Martin and Isak finished the film without them. Which was good, in the end, given how much it fucked Isak up. It was the first time he'd let anyone see him cry besides Sabine. He thought about it for days after, paranoid and embarrassed Martin might bring it up. But he never did. 

“Yes, I was,” Martin nods. Eyes dancing a little humorously. “But that’s what I mean. I knew, in that exact moment, no matter how different we were, or how quiet you are, or how loud I am....you felt the same things I did. It hurt you the same way it hurt me. You knew what it was like too.”

“Knew what was like?”

“Lots of things,” Martin rummages for a way to explain what he means. “Not just being gay, but knowing...knowing what it was like...to feel like you're so alone and you have nowhere to go and how sad it is, but then you find those people - those people who are just like you, and you get upset, even when it's just a fucking movie, because you know how much you're relieved to have those people. You know?"

He wants to choke on how accurate it is, how it causes a wet ache to rush up his throat. How it reminds him of being seventeen, and understanding nothing about gay pride, except that he was very afraid of what it meant. "Yes, I do know."

"And to be grateful to those people who fought for the right to be who they were, and those stories that…”

“Helped shape the world we’re in now?” he guesses.

“Maybe,” Martin nods. “At the very least, there are spaces now where we are free, which didn't used to exist. In London - but also in Berlin, and Oslo too. Those safe spaces, where we don't have to be afraid...the only thing we have to be is ourselves."

Isak thinks, you create that space for me. You do, and you don’t even know you do.

Or maybe he does know.

“I watched that film with Even, too,” he tells him.

“Oh?” he raises his eyebrows. “And?”

“He loved it, of course,” Isak admits, “And he cried too.”

“Of course he did. The boy is made of feelings,” Martin hums playfully, and the sweetness of the moment simmers just so between them, before fading away, along with tension from earlier.

Isak shrugs a little. “I need to talk to him. I just - I got caught up this summer. You know? He ….has that effect. But I know I can’t go back after Christmas anyway.”

“You never know - ”

“No, I do know. I spent the entire summer living in denial, but I’m _pretty_ sure I failed at least half of my classes,” he attempts to keep his tone light, but the embarrassment bleeds through anyway. “So me graduating early is out of the question. And….I do eventually want to move to Oslo again. But I think I’d be fooling myself if I said I was ready now. I’m not. I’m really not.”

“It’s okay, ma cher,” comes his calm, measured response. “There’s no shame in that.”

“Oh, no, there’s plenty of shame,” he groans, running a hand over his eyes. “I get so intense with Even sometimes. It’s all or nothing, and if one thing goes wrong, or something happens, I just assume everything we’ve tried to salvage will fall apart again. But it doesn't help, if I fall apart every time I think that will happen.”

“Listen, Isak,” Martin says sharply. “Let Martini tell you a little something. I didn’t know who the hell this guy was going to be, seeing as you’re hardly handing out intimate details. It was all a mystery to me, this whole fucking saga you two have got going on - ” he sighs with an contemptuous eye roll. “But it’s obvious you two are so committed to each other, there’s no possibility that one argument will destroy anything.”

“Ugh,” Isak rubs his eyes. “Yeah, well. I can understand why he’s pissed with me. I’ve never been the most forthcoming about shit.”

“Oh, you don’t say,” Martin quips back, and here it is, the return of their friendly, common banter. “Colour me surprised. And here I thought you were the most emotionally open person among us. Fuck. Now what are we gonna do?”

Isak can’t help but release the giggle bubbling up in him, and then they’re both laughing a little, Martin’s toes pressing upon the tops of Isak’s, knees bent at the same angle. He keeps nudging Isak, in his stomach or his elbow, just to pull the same reaction of being swatted away each time.

“You’re so fucking annoying,” Isak groans without heat, pressing back against Martin’s feet until they stop tickling him.

“Please, darling,” Martin rolls his eyes again. “You love my attention, don’t try and fool me. I’m adorable and you know it, we _both_ know you know it.”

He hasn’t the energy to deny it. Even his smile feels heavy, so he rolls onto his back with a heavy sigh, readying to face what still looms. “I texted him before I got back. And I don’t know if he’s replied. Yet.”

Martin makes a sympathetic noise.

“What if you’re right, though,” Isak finally admits.

“Don’t,” Martin dismisses firmly. “Don’t be dense, Isak. Without a doubt, he’s going to come back later, and you two will sort it all out, and things will be kittens and rainbows again before we know it.”

“How can you know that?” he can feel the hot ache climbing in his throat, a sudden panic setting his heart a flutter again. A white hot wetness burning in his eyes and fogging his vision. “You don’t know him, you don’t - ”

“Ma cher,” Martin quiets him, “Stop _it._ I know enough. Everything is going to be fine. Now come here.”

Isak thinks about ignoring him, or refusing it outright. Sometimes it’s all too much to accept. Martin doesn’t need to take a damn interest in Isak’s well being at all - and well - he certainly shouldn't have to put up Isak’s weird moods, or help him sort out his medication, or try to wake him up from his naps. Nor does he need to cook them breakfast every morning, nor invite Isak along to every social outing with his friends. 

Isak would be lying if he thought he wouldn’t miss it. He would miss it terribly. He’s never grown so attached to someone so quickly, outside of Even, and it is is something else entirely. Terrifying, and illuminating, to want someone close this way. A little alarming. And undeniably cosy. Much like Martin himself. The old critical voice in his head tries to pull him back, just suffocate in silence. Why make Martin deal with him, when he's already done so much? Just swallow it, he thinks viciously in his head. Don’t let him get too close. You don’t deserve it.

And yet. Something pulls him back from the brink. Call it the exhaustion of the day, beating every last inch of Isak’s self-control right out of him. Call it growth. Or call it grief. Whatever. Isak rolls closer, until Martin’s arms can wrap around him. Despite their height difference, his head fits perfectly underneath Martin’s chin, his cheek falling on the lapel of his patchouli stained robe. He lets himself be held, sinking so deep into the embrace it’s as if his body disappears for moment. Just for a moment, he thinks to himself. Just for a minute at least.

“You’re probably right,” Isak murmurs.

“‘Probably,’” Martini scoffs above him. “Definitely right.”

He chants to himself the same thoughts over and over until they form a prayer. Even will be here, and neither of them will be angry anymore. There will be no more discussions as to whether or not they can be together. Because he knows they can. He’ll promise to tell the truth. And he’ll promise, again, to be better than they were.

 

-

 

 


	4. Part IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, hello. Welp, looks like there's just gonna have to be one more chapter. You all must really be sick of hearing me say that, huh? But this time I promise. The last part is finished, save for one scene I decided to add in (Always adding in scenes, it seems). Look out for it this week coming.
> 
> I've updated the tags to reflect the nature of this content, and I want to add another trigger warning here: please heed that there is discussion of assault against one of the main characters in this chapter - though it is dubious that anyone was in fact assaulted - doesn't matter, this is so important. The intention and predatory element we see so frequently in sexual assault is present, as is the resulting internalised shame/victim blaming. If you are at all concerned and wish for more clarification, spoilers included, please feel free to message me.
> 
> Secondly, there is an Easter egg for Anne Carson's translation of Euripides. Claps if you spot it, it's also located in my H.Moon tag on tumblr. 
> 
> Casablanca is a film I've seen a few times, and whilst it's not my favourite of favourites, it is a very superior movie for it's time, and I highly recommend it. 
> 
> Martin's favourite song is by fellow queer artist & NW native Perfume Genius, called ['Queen'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z7OSSUwPVM4) and it is a fucking tune. If you take the time to listen to any of the songs for this chapter, please, please let it be that one.
> 
> Lastly - thank you to each and every one of you who reads, comments, kudos, bookmarks, reaches out to me on tumblr, and has made edits of this fic. I am so indebted to all of you. I am so wonderfully blessed to get to read your thoughts over and over, and know that it's providing someone out there with some enjoyment. Thank you.
> 
> There are some wonderful Pointing at the Moon edits, which I will link in the last chapter when it is posted.

[TIRSDAG 04:43](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z1Bfeh4vrek)

Isak wakes in a cold sweat, confined in his blankets and lying in a puddle of his own drool. The remnants of his dream slips away the more he blinks into consciousness, but the residual pounding of his heart stays longer. Returning to sleep is futile now.

Around him is darkness everywhere, except for the moon unmissable from his window. It’s nearly full, save for a sliver. He sits up, running his hands through his hair.

His bed is empty. He checks his phone where it’s lying on the floor. He looks at the time and the flagging three percent battery. It’s nearly five now.

EVEN 00:45 / hey, there have been some delays, and I have to stay to finish up. Don’t worry. As soon as I can leave I will

When he calls Even’s phone it goes straight to voicemail. So either it’s dead or off. A queasy, unsettled feeling emerges. He stands up. Where there was once a mess on his floor of all the things Isak did not want to deal with, now there is nothing but wood floors. On his desk is his session notes, his university mail, his keys and wallet sitting all in a pile. His grades sit unfolded next to it, a blatant display of his dismal performance. He folds them closed. Martin must have cleaned up his mess for him.

Suddenly he can’t be in his room any longer. There’s a faint noise emitting from the other room, like a proverbial finger beckoning him.

He goes into the living room. Wanders through to the kitchen. Checks the balcony. The toilet. Even’s not there either. The flat thrums with the same energy of an animated entity. The evidence of life here is so imminent, but Isak assumes a ghostly quality as he tiptoes from room to room without touching anything. Without so much as brushing past a single plant.  

He observes leftover dinner still out on the table, a half-drank glass a wine on the drain board. The constant drip-drip of a creaky faucet into a saucepan in the sink. The radio still crooning, piano tinkering of something wistful and faraway. It simpers when he turns the dial until it’s off.

The world seems to flatten out around him. Back In the living room, Isak realises there’s a movie playing on the television. It must be the source of the noise. It’s black and white and so quiet and unassuming, it kind of spooks him.

There’s a man at a piano.  A woman with deep sad eyes says, sing it, Sam and he does, and out comes a beautiful melody Isak thinks he remembers. He's dazed by it. She's staring off into a memory as he sings and her gaze wavers, twinkling with tears. They almost look like little stars.

Isak’s entranced. He sits down and pulls the quilt from the back of sofa, wrapping it around him best he can, until not even his toes are exposed to the still air around him. Somehow the muted tone and the age of the film comforts him, and it does not go amiss, how perfect a scene this would be for Even, to witness Isak enraptured by a film such as this, unable to look away. There’s no possibility of dozing off now.

Yesterday morning seemed like a lifetime ago now, when they were teasing him about it.

The entirety of the day has left his mind enervated and fragile, and it is in this weakened state that he cannot venture on fathoming the various possibilities of Even’s whereabouts. Not yet anyway. Not when it’s so dark outside still. Not when reality feels like an optional ride anyway. Numbed, he just watches the movie and waits.

The panic is mostly stifled by the lack of energy; instead it dangles in front of him on a string. His neck lolls back, stiff and sore into the soft spot in the sofa, and he curls up smaller still, phone lost somewhere in the folds of his blanket.

There’s Rick, bidding Ilsa goodbye, and he’s tapping her cheek as she cries, here’s looking at you, kid, and Jesus, didn’t Even say that to him once, his eyes laughing as he did so, making a joke that went right over Isak’s head? The scene is interrupted by the buzzer ringing, one short, one longer still, and for a moment Isak thinks he’s imagined it.

He scrambles up, caught up in his blanket and nearly falling over, hitting his knee hard into the leg of the armchair, hobbling as quickly as he can to the door. He presses the key button on the wall phone without picking it up, and then he waits for a half second longer. He pulls the front door open and lets it hang there. Thinks to himself: does he wait here? Another beat. No, no. Back to the sofa.

The prospect of receiving Even after all these past hours, so unknown, so harrowing - makes it a unknowable agony for him to wait there. He must remain at a distance, where he can gauge how it all might be. Rick’s watching the love of his life leave with another man. There’s a still a war going on around them. She doesn’t look back, and Isak doesn’t blame her. He tries to reaffix himself to the movie but his eyes inevitably drift towards the door every few seconds until Even steps through the doorway.

They stare at each other, the air fragile between them, until -

“I’m so relieved you heard the bell,” Even speaks first, stepping out of his shoes and saunter closer, like a weary cat. “I’m sorry I woke you. My phone died.”

“I was already awake,” Isak sniffs. He gestures limply towards the TV. “I was watching a movie.”

“Oh?” Even turns to see, and then back, his eyebrows raised. “ Oh . Do you remember now, that we watched it before?”

“Kind of,” he admits. “Some of it. [That scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7vThuwa5RZU), the song, where he plays it, what is it called - ”

“‘You must remember this,’” Even half-sings, half-murmurs. “‘A kiss is just a kiss…’ As Time Goes by.”

Isak nods feebly. “Yeah,” he swallows. “That one.”

Then he reaches a hand out towards Even, cutting in half the space between them. Even returns it like a reflex, until their index fingers nearly touch. “Come here.”

Even does. He sits next to Isak and their bodies pivot until they’re nearly facing each other head on. He looks exhausted, features forlorn and hesitant too, the way his gaze flits over Isak’s features. Worn thin and yet somehow still undeniably lovely, edges muted in the grey shadows of early morning. Bottom pink a little moist where he licked it last, a nervous habit if Isak ever knew one.

Nothing about Even’s posture is angry or rigid, so Isak braves the olive branch, in the form of a hand reaching to cup his cheek, thumb lining up perfectly with a splotch of faded red paint on his cheek. Even’s only response is to press back until he's perfectly aligned against the grooves of Isak’s fingers.

"Hi," he braves quietly.

"Hi," Even returns, and he drops his hand. “Have you slept?”  

“Yes, I have,” he nods, “But you haven’t, have you? What happened, with -?”

“I didn’t mean to stay that long,” Even rushes to tell him. “I was just kind of...sad, and wanted to finish, so we could - so we could spend our last days together. But eventually I had to admit that there’s still more to be done. So I have to go in tomorrow, again, but - anyway. I’m sorry I didn’t text you back. I wanted to. I should have.”

“It’s okay,” Isak shakes his head, and he finds, now, that it is. It is okay. “I understand. I know when you’re in the - when you’re working, it’s hard to stop. Here.”

As he says this, he spots the Mucha tin on the coffee table before them. On top of it is a half smoked joint. He passes it to Even, who produces his own lighter and makes do right away, taking a deep toke.

When he exhales, his body sags with it, and his relief is tangible, melting the whole room. He takes another hit and passes it to Isak. Martin’s hash is so pungent and tangerine that it perfumes the smoke between them.

Isak feels the effect nearly immediately, his eyes temporarily clouding over with the urge to cough. His voice sounds curious to his own ears, how meekly it wobbles around the edges of his apology. “I’m sorry about this morning. You were right. And I wish I ...I wish I had told you, I wish I hadn’t just...I don’t know, did what I did. And worse still to say what I said.”

He takes a breath, looking down and then looking up at him again, their eyes connecting, and he doesn’t look away again. Repeats it again, so Even really understands he means it. “I want you to know I didn't mean to lie to you on purpose. About the January thing, I just got all...wrapped up, and I know I didn’t tell you the truth, I should’ve - I’ve just...wanted everything to be…”

“Perfect?” Even guesses. Isak nods: perfect is a nice way of putting it. He feels like a coward; he knows he’s been one, in this moment and moments before this one. Of course, Even is choosing to see it from a much kinder perspective. "I know what that's like, too."

“Yeah,” he acknowledges softly. Clears his throat a little and watches Even’s eyes flutter open and closed, and open again. He seems to be sinking into the moment, memorising, tongue peeking between his lips, and for a brief, absurd second, Isak wants to ask, what does it taste like? If you could bottle it all up, what would it taste like?

Isak swallows. These words are obtuse objects in his mouth, painful and awkward and necessary to release. “...I’m sorry, most of all for losing my temper. I regret it a lot, and I don’t - I hate that I yelled at you.”

“Me too,” Even says, eyes blinking open again. Isak is surprised to find his voice is whittled down to a plea. “I regret what I said, and I’m sorry I said it. I don’t wanna fight. I just want to spend what time we have left together, okay?”

He nods, palpably remedied by their admissions, how soft Even’s voice is right now, coaxing them into a cocoon of quiet reconciliation. Isak grips the blanket around his shoulders tightly, ambling up on his knees and straddling his legs, pulling them both inside the quilt as he hugs him. Even’s response is immediate, hands crawling up Isak’s waist and up and down his back in comforting strokes, the crown of his head slotting against Isak’s neck, nosing at his jugular, and he responses in kind, pressing his cheek down against the side of Even’s forehead. They both just breathe together for a moment, until Isak’s ministrations turn to a wandering kiss across Even’s forehead, and the response he receives is a tired, defeated groan.

“You’re here. I’m with you,” Isak murmurs nonsensically into his temple, lips grazing the protruding curve of his cheekbone. He moves to his brow line, the fleshy peachy skin of his eyelid, down the bridge of his nose, his cupid’s bow, his full top lip. He kisses his mouth like one would gently pry open the bud of a flower, and is rewarded with the sweet taste of his tongue just brushing against his. Even relaxes. Even submits to him. Even is really kissing him now. As if it renews his energy entirely, hands sweeping up to hold Isak’s cheeks, tongue moving insistently, surging through their bodies and rocking them forward, and then back again, like one four-armed pendulum.

Isak bows his back, another inch closer, as close to Even as he possibly can be, knees aching from pressing into the sides of Even’s hips, but it hardly matters. He doesn’t care, he just kisses Even and allows his body to become malleable clay in his hands, thinking mould me, mould me, mould me to you, and wishing every single concave and crevice against Even until there are no gaps left between them. He smells like paint and damp evening air and the city, and Isak gasps a little into his mouth when he bites down on his lip; he can’t help what Even does to him, how much it feels like coming undone and being made over. Like transcendence. It’s just what he knows, he doesn’t know anything else beyond it.

Eventually, Even pulls back, runs his finger over his lips, fitting his index in the severest angle of Isak’s mouth, right in the middle, at his cupid’s bow, and his gaze is impossible to resist meeting, how deep and blue it is, how he looks at Isak like he’s never wanted to look at anything else.

“I love you,” Isak whispers, leaning in and wrapping his arms around Even’s neck, hugging him fiercely, as if his life depended on it. Even returns in kind, arms enveloping around his shoulders.

Distantly, Isak registers the film has ended, perhaps long ago. The blackness of the sky outside is starting to pull apart and morning’s first grey light is breaking through the ether of clouds. The splintering cracks of whatever has broken inside of him aches, and these contents are spilling out into the open, how raw and brutal and fraught it all seems. How desperate he is never to let Even go again. Even doesn’t make him move, one hand in his hair still and the other rummaging around until he finds their forgotten joint again. He lights it and takes a hit, then another, blowing the smoke right into Isak’s mouth. Back and forth, and back again, like they’re sipping on each other’s souls.

Eventually the spell breaks, as spells are wont to do. They’ve finished smoking and the mood sobers again, despite the hash softening all their edges. When Isak stands and mentions something about going to bed, Even looks at his phone and groans.

“I don’t even feel tired. Which means I’m definitely going to pay for this later,” he complains, rubbing his eyes. “I should at least go wash up first.”

“Why don’t you let me run you a bath,” Isak suggests, and Even nods gratefully, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet, and doesn’t let go of Isak’s hand as they tiptoe to the toilet.

The tub looks like a porcelain casket under an umbrella of grey-green shadows. Isak runs the taps, rearranges two of the ferns, and doesn’t turn on the light, not when the first grim trickles of morning flood the room in a peculiar sage glow.

Instead he opens up the top drawer and lights one of Martin’s candles, placing it near the foot of the tub. Then another on the shelf next to the sink, away from the orchid. Even pees, steps out of his trousers and stands there in his underwear and t shirt, legs like spindly willow branches, washing his hands and face. Watching Isak in the mirror, water dripping off his nose.

Isak hugs himself, insecure under his gaze. He sidles up behind Even, curling around his back like a comma, pressing his cheek in the soft space between Even’s shoulder blades. Just resting there for a moment. The water fills the tub.

Eventually Even turns around and kisses his forehead. “Get in with me.”

From past experience Even should know Isak will, but perhaps he too feels a little insecure standing here, because he adds a small, “Please.”

His fingers run along the bottom of Even’s t shirt before he pulls it off, slow enough so Even can lift his arms over his head. His skin is still so pale and luminous in this light compared to Isak’s, and the moles freckles along his right shoulder still look like a constellation, trickling out of alignment once they reach his chest. Right over his heart there’s another blotch of red paint, and then down by his belly button there are finger smudges of red too. More red up his wrist. Isak doesn’t think about it, doesn’t think about portraits or his own face staring back at him, the ones from Even’s head. Instead he loops his hands around Even’s narrow hips, thumb between his skin and the waistband of his boxers, slipping them right off.

He’s always loved looking at Even’s naked body. One might assume given his upbringing that Isak would turn away, thinking it sacrilegious; these old habits do die hard, and when it comes to God, sometimes they don’t really die at all. But Isak’s always found himself so hungry. It’s startling how he zeroes in, how he forgets everything else. An instance of real faith bestowed upon him. Swift and devastating.

It’s kind of like worshipping at the altar. Except it’s the altar of his bare form. A visual feast of broad shoulders, a protruding, severe collarbone, the flat pale planes of his torso, the pink shells of his nipples, the vein running bright blue along his stomach like a river, curving down into a vee of his hips, the coveted shape of his dick hanging between his legs. The grace of soft, barely formed musculature in his thighs. Isak looks at him like he’s starved. Like he’s never known anything but hunger, and now this. Now this.

His thoughts always scramble. Thinking things like - fuck, here’s divinity right before you, and it’s such a consuming knowledge, knowing - here’s loveliness, right in front of you, and he’s not supposed to make your mouth water this way, and you’re not supposed to see the beauty in him, but you do, God you do -

Even’s kissing him again. Mouth enveloping Isak’s, pulling his bottom lip, pressing his groin against his, running a hand through the tail ends of his hair, sensitive right at the base of his skull. Before Isak can fully register, his shirt is gone, and his shorts slide down around his ankles and then they’re off too, and when he looks down between them he can see how close they are, close enough that their dicks nearly touch, and their toes overlap. Even steps away, and turns off the water.

Together they fold in on either side, arranging legs and elbows, Isak on one end and Even on the other. The water is so hot he can’t help but stiffen against it, relaxing in increments, but Even seems to enjoy it, eyes slipping closed once they settle completely.

He frowns. “I forgot music.”

Even shakes his head, unperturbed. “I like the quiet.”

He nods. Some of the ivy is tickling his shoulder and he bats it away.

“You remember the first time we took a bath together?”

He nods again. Runs his wet fingers through his hair a few times, breathing in steam, and he can’t help but grin a little, tinged with embarrassment. He does remember. Of course he does.

“You confused body oil and bubble bath and when we got in we become one giant mass of limbs, slipping around all over the place - “ he breaks off in a laugh, and Isak laughs too, images resurfacing. It was so difficult to manage what little space they had in that cramped tub, let alone trying to sit still against the slippery edges - “And you swore you did it on accident - “

“I did! How was I supposed to know we owned  _body oil_?” Isak mimics his protest from the first time.

“I have no fucking idea, maybe by reading the label?” Even teases him, “But no, no, of course not - God, I remember laughing so fucking hard, and you were trying to be defensive but it didn’t work, babe, because you were fucking sliding into the centre with me, and I swear, we were like a giant slimy sea animal in some wet and wild attraction - “

“Fuck, oh my God,” Isak barks with laughter now, a full body eruption of giggles at the idea. “That was such a shitshow, it was so bad - “

“ _Bad_?” Even pulls a face. “What! Are you kidding? Are you forgetting the crazy hot sex that followed? I swear, I don’t remember it ever being so -  _slick_ , and my skin was moisturised for days after - no, no, it wasn’t bad at all. In fact, it was so fucking good, I became pretty suspicious you did the whole thing on purpose, as some kind of elaborate come on - “  

“It wasn’t! Give me some credit here, that would have easily been my clumsiest effort to get you into bed,” he scoffs, “You forget, don’t you, when you split your hand open trying to catch yourself on the bedside table after sliding on the hardwood - ”

“So there was a little blood,” Even shrugs. “Oh, well.”

He splashes Isak a bit, still snickering. The water surges all around them but doesn’t spill over. Isak gazes at him, smiling ruefully, eyelids slipping lower and lower the longer he looks. He says it softly to himself under his breath: oh, well.

As abruptly as the laughter sprung between them, the solemn mood slips up again, and Isak is immeasurably regretful about the events of the day. With Even facing him, covered only by protective layer of water, he still needs to remind himself he too is exposed, and is just as vulnerable here as Isak. Sometimes it’s hard to remember Even is human.

“I’m sorry if I’ve ruined everything now,” Isak leans his cheek on the lip of the tub. It’s cold compared to the water and a little calming. Even mirrors him, leaning his head against his hand against the ledge, mouth puckered and sorrowful.

Finally he shakes his head. “You didn’t. You won’t. I regret saying that. I’m - you were right. Sometimes I say things, not because I really think them, but because I want to...express how intensely I feel. But that’s not fair.”

“When you texted me, I freaked out,” Isak’s surprised by how plainly he’s able to admit this now. Surprised he’s admitting it all. Even chews on his lip. “I really thought you might break up with me again.”

“No! I wasn’t. No,” is all he says. As if he’s incapable of fathoming such a possibility.

“But you’re right,” he admits softly. “It will never work if I’m not honest.”

“Have you not been honest?”

“It’s not that I’m lying,” he confesses, “I don’t want you to think I’m lying. But there are somethings I haven’t said. That I should probably tell you.”

Even remains impassive. “Okay.”

“I - should have told you, about the deal with January,” he hedges. “Why it can’t happen that way.”

“But - it’s not - if you can’t come in January, you can’t come,” Even shrugs a little. “I mean, I’m sad about it, yeah. But it’s not really -  _that._ I was more upset that I just - didn’t know. And then I was wondering, you know, what else - “

“I know,” he rubs the corner of his eyes with his index finger. “I didn’t wanna tell you, because you’d ask why, and I didn’t want you to ask why, because -” tries not to choke on the words, not now, Isak, now when you haven’t even fucking started in on the worst of it yet - “Because, like, for me. I - I have this fear, right? That we’re on this really thin ice. And if anything - if there’s a single crack, if things get shitty, then we’re going to fall through, it will be fucked up, and we will, we  _will_ break up again, we won’t make it - “

“Isak,” Even is confused, and gentle. “We’re not on thin ice. You can say whatever it is you have to say to me. No one, least of all me, expects you to be perfect.”

When he doesn’t add anything, Even continues. Runs his two longest finger along the inside of Isak’s calf. It almost tickles, except it doesn’t. “It’s me. Remember? It would be beyond -  _beyond_ fucking ridiculous of me to assume that every single moment is going to be smooth. And more than that, it would be fucked up to expect you to shoulder everything in our relationship.”

“I - yeah, okay, but - ” he hesitates, still incapable of fully agreeing.

“Look,” Even presses on. “Think of it like this. If I came to you and said, I’m scared to tell you how I feel, or what’s going on with me, because then you’ll see I’m not perfect, and you’ll want to break up, what would your response be?”

“Yes, I see what you mean, but you’re different,” he tries to stress. How is he able to explain this without it sounding like he’s being purposely difficult. “You’re allowed to have bad days. You don’t always have a choice.”

“Why?” Even is confused. “Because - I’m sensitive about shit? Or I get carried away in my emotions? Or - what, because I’m bipolar?”

He refuses to answer, but the silence is clarity enough.

Even just shakes his head. “It doesn’t work like that. The thing about - if we’re gonna talk about mental health, you have to realise that we all have it, and it requires maintenance. Both of us. Yeah, of course, it’s different,” Even adds on before Isak can say anything. “I know what you mean. But this idea that you - that you’re not allowed to have a bad day, or come to me when shitty things happen - that’s not at all how it should be. In fact, I feel the opposite. You have the right - the absolute right, to tell me whenever things aren’t okay. And you also can expect me to be there for you, and not just break up because things are hard.”

What Even is telling him sinks in, and Isak considers it. It seems almost too hopeful and good to be true, considering the ghosts sitting in the room alongside them.

“You’re right,” he concedes. “It’s...I don’t know. I guess, it feels like a lot to put on you. Once I say these things out loud, they become real. And then you’ll know, always.”

“That  _is_ scary,” Even allows softly. “But it’s okay. It’s me.”

Exactly. It’s Even. Isak could say a lot of things running through his head right now. Things like: sometimes he’s so frustrated and miserable he becomes an irritable unproductive recluse.  Showers are few and far between. Entire weekends spent on the sofa in an taciturn silence. No room for good mornings, when Isak’s hardly slept through the night.

Who on earth would want to face any of it? This is rotten work, caring for me, he thinks.

“It really is okay,” Even repeats again. Even saying: not to me. Not if it's you.

“You say that now, but you don’t know. You could change your mind.”

Even splashes him again, soft at first and then harder, until Isak looks up from where he’s drawing shapes on the ledge. He’s smiling a little, a brave smile, meant to comfort Isak. “Hey. Isak. I’m not going to change my mind. Not now, not anytime soon.”

When Isak remains quiet, Even grabs the soap and starts to wash his shoulders and armpits. He makes work at scrubbing away the paint on his arms and chest. It’s softens the edges of this conversation, domestic in that endearing way which arises only when you’re in love with someone and they do something completely mundane, but it’s  _them_ doing it, and therefore-

He hands Isak the soap and says, “You don’t always have to try and be strong for me.”

It’s such a simple statement, but it lodges thickly right in Isak’s throat. He really wishes he could swallow all the words Even espouses. Imagines they’d light up his insides like the tail ends of fireflies. No darkness left.

Isak nods. He understands, despite this persistent, lingering doubt, that he needs to take Even’s word for it. Okay. So he’s not going to go anywhere. He scooches down what little room there is to coat his shoulders in water, before washing them a lazily with the bar of blue soap. Everything is suspended in this hazy jade colour, Even’s shadow on the tile wall, flickering in the low light, naked and soapy and real. They could leave it all behind now.

Except he can’t. This is it, Isak. He steers himself. Sinks lower still in the hot water, until just an inch of his neck and chin are above the water line, and Even has to accommodate both of Isak’s knees on either side of him.

“Okay,” he mumbles. Here he is, pledging his truth.  Is he really going to do this? Better just do it. “Well...here’s the thing.”

“The thing,” Even repeats. Now he’s washing his hair, scrubbing little bits of paint out of it. Tinges the suds all pink. “The thing?”

“I er…got my grades back,” he starts. Fanning the flames to a fire on simmer in his  brain for nearly two months now. “I opened them last night. They’re...utter shit, to be honest. I think I failed all my classes but one. So...I mean, even before I got them, I knew it wasn't going to be good. The term hadn't gone well.”

“Oh,” he says. “And which class did you pass?”

It brings a small smile out of him. “Take a guess.”

“Let’s see - German Idealism?”

He chuckles. “Not even Heidegger could save me there.”

“Hmmmm,” Even pretends to wonder. “The Existentialism one?”

“The Modern European Philosophy course, yes,” he affirms. “I managed to do pretty well in that one. Some of my professors knew - about my mother, so they gave me some leniency at the beginning. But then...”

Even nudges him along. “Then...?”

“Well…” he can feel little droplets of sweat bead at his forehead. Even turns the tap back on, just a steady stream of burning water to keep them warm. “At first I was managing. Doing fine. Well, I told myself I was. I found Sabine online, she helped me get on this antidepressant, blah blah blah….

“But every weekend I was left with...all this extra  _time_ and that’s when I started just,” he articulates with his fingers a spinning motion in front of him. “I started going out with my roommates more and more. And going out with them, meant - well, a lot of drinking, a lot of drugs. It helped me not think about anything - so at first, I was like, I just wanna escape. And I stopped showing up for my Monday classes, then my Tuesday ones, and so on - it wasn’t good.”

“Right. Around what time was this?”

“Remember when I called you for your birthday?”

“I remember,” Even smiles. “It was the best present.”

“The air of surprise keeps your expectations low,” he jokes. Clears his throat. “It was all kind of going to shit during around then. And after that, it was...”

“March,” he supplies, and all of his sweetness from before morphs into a deadly seriousness. Even’s hand snakes under water to claps around Isak’s ankle, thumb rubbing against the bone there. It’s this touch - a nudge, really, a hi, I’m here, that gives Isak to the courage to say what he say to say next.

“Right,” he nods. “It got worse in March. Because -”

“Something happened in March?” Even half a question, half a statement, hair forgotten in a little soapy curl. He nods and wonders what Even's suspected. It hardly matters anymore, because now he’ll know everything. 

Most of the bubbles have disappeared, leaving only an opaque film concealing the submerged parts of his body, save for where his knees protrude like two mountains. Even’s gaze is so intense it dissolves the world around them, and Isak knows he can continue only if he abstracts himself a little, at a distance, where nothing will hurt, not here, not in this warm, safe water.

“I don’t really remember the order of what happened, it’s all - ” he gestures flippantly, splashing the water again. “Fucked up in my memory. But one weekend, I was at this - club and I got completely fucked - really fucked up. As in, it didn’t make sense with what I had took. I could barely walk, let alone speak. I couldn’t really see. My vision kept - ”

He makes another motion with his hand, moving it back and forth in front of his face.

Even is quiet. Isak knows if he doesn’t spit it out, he won’t. He wishes there was a way to talk about these wounds without having to name them.

“That night I ran into Martin. I had met him once or twice before. At one point, I remember, we were on a bench outside - and he was asking me what I took, and if he should call someone - “

He nearly says: but there was no one to call. He doesn’t, though. It’s too pathetic.

“Do you know what happened?”

“No,” he blurts out. “No. The next thing I remember is waking up later in my bathtub, without my clothes and covered in sick. I couldn’t breathe, my chest was all - wheezing, and I kept throwing up, and I couldn't see, I just ....I thought maybe I overdosed, and maybe I might die.”

“Shit, Isak,” Even moans, brows drawn up in anguish and disbelief, and Isak feels terrible, he does, for putting that look on his face, for causing him any pain at all. His preference concerning trauma was to hold the finer trembles close enough to bury it, and let it hurt him instead. “Oh my god, babe - I - ”

“It’s not - I was fine, in the end,” he shakes his head. His vision seems to curl in around the edges, and he looks away, distracted, trying to quell the pang in his chest. “It was fucking scary. I’d never - that had never happened to me before. I think it must have been in my drink, because I had hardly taken anything that night.”

There’s a deep frown fixed on Even’s face. “But then - what happened? How did you manage to get home in the end?”

“Exactly,” he affirms quietly, and feels his hand move up, Even’s fingers palming his knee cap and then sliding back down into the water. “You know that fight Martini had, in B.- with that guy?”

“Yes…” It’s obvious Even didn’t expect this from the way he frowns. “And who is he?”

Isak swallows, trying to unclench his jaw for the umpteenth time. “He’s called Stefan. He and Martin used to run in similar circles, the same parties - anyway, Martini hates him. Like, more than he hates anyone else, probably.”

“I gathered that much. Martin didn't seem keen when I asked him about it either.”

“Yeah, I know. So when I was outside, Stefan came up and said he'd take me home. I remember Martini didn’t like  _that_ at all, and they argued, and he tried to get me to stay with him, but I just…” Isak stumbles a little over his words. 

“But - okay. Hold on. Why does Martin hate him?”

“Because Stefan is a piece of shit,” Isak’s jaw clicks, and he reminds himself to open his mouth as not to clench again. His body is unmovable here, with Even running his hand up his leg, the water warm still and creamy with offshoots of the shampoo in Even’s hair. He takes another deep breath.  “But I went with him anyway."

"And - you don't remember getting home?"

“No, I don't,” Isak knows he’s grimacing, and he starts pressing his fingers into the side of the tub, for lack of something to do with his hands. All this nervous energy trapped and miserable within him. “Martin messaged me later that week. Told me about Stefan, that I should be careful, because he’s done this to one of Martin’s friends before. How he slips roofies into their drinks, then waits until they’re nearly unconscious. Then he takes them home and - well. He takes them home. Apparently people have heard him bragging about it before. So. I know it was Stefan who drugged me in the first place.”

The flame behind Isak’s shoulder catching in the reflection in Even's eyes, and it turns his gaze mutinous. “Fuck. What the fuck. What a piece of shit. That makes me fucking sick. That people just _know_ about it. And they don’t report him - “

“It’s hard to prove, when the person doesn’t remember it, or doesn’t  _want_  to remember,” Isak mutters. He’s starting to feel a little nauseous. “Your memory is affected. So sometimes they don’t even know.”

He rubs water over his face, wishing it would relieve him from this hot, tight agony. His tone becomes rote, as if it all happened to someone else. A safe distance, where humiliation exists in the abstract. He doesn't think about the smell of the puke, how it dried up on his skin. Or the bruises on his body that he doesn't remember. Or his missing clothes. “I don’t remember anything. I just remember waking up in my bathtub. There was no - evidence, really that he - did  _anything_. Which makes sense, with the way I was puking. He must have given up on me and left me there.”

“Isak,” Even whispers mournfully, but Isak can’t look at him, he can’t bear it. Not yet.  He swallows thickly. He hates saying that, _evidence_ , like his body is a specimen in a log somewhere. Like it isn’t his own.

“But, regardless. Maybe he didn’t -  _assault_  me, but I don’t know. It's just so fucking - ” he breaks off swiftly. "I just don't know."

“How did you know him, in the first place?” Even asks. “I mean, how did he know where you lived?”

Here’s the worst of it, Isak knows, the part of the story he didn’t want to admit unless he had too. But of course, Even never misses a single thing.

Isak looks at his fingers, gripping and loosening against the tub ledge, the way his skin turns white under the pressure. “Stefan was one of my roommates.”

“No. Oh, no, Isak,” the break on the  _k_ , affecting the tail end of his name like a funeral prayer. “Isak - ”

“Yes,” he nods, and it washes in him as if it were new information, as if he too is learning it for the first time, “Yes, it’s true.”

An avalanche of memories, abhorrent and horrific, arrive before his mind’s eye. All those times in the past where Isak witnessed the tail end of Stefan’s morning after conquests - and that’s what he called them, conquests, wasn’t it? How long Stefan wore him down, _just come out partying with us, what, are you afraid of fags? Unless you_ are  _a fag, - and you are, little bird, you are, aren’t you?_

Isak pretended - more to himself than anyone - that he never had a problem with him, that he wasn’t unnerved by the way he’d catch Stefan looking at him. How Isak always felt his eyes on him, burning into the back of his head, whenever he was in the kitchen or living room. He denied Stefan was the reason he kept to his room when his other flatmates weren't there. He ignored the uneasy edges to Stefan's double entendres. How they always left a sinister taste lingering in Isak's mouth. 

There were more than a few times he saw random men stumble out of Stefan’s room, dazed and glassy eyed, or sick in the toilet when Isak would wake up and desperately need to pee -  twice, he’d come out to find them on the sofa, sleeping so still he worried they were dead at first. He never said anything. Never once thought to consider the possibilities of what was happening right next door. He just stayed out of the way, with his door closed, his head buried between his books or his blankets or whatever else. Whatever else.

Isak finds that he can’t look at Even just yet. Both of them are frozen in a puzzle of limbs and half-washed hair. Just the trickle of warm water between them, like a song.

There’s a will in him to continue, to finish this, once and for all. “After that, I just...it just got so much worse. Everything was adding up,” he continues. “I mean, I never really - it was never the best living situation before. But once I realised he…I couldn’t be there anymore. I’d just hid in my room, I wouldn’t go to class, I wouldn’t eat, I just couldn’t do anything. I told Sabine, and she urged me to try and move out. And then, at the end of March, I ran into Martin one day in Mitte. I was walking back from an appointment. And he asked me how things were.”

“He was worried about you.”

“He was,” Isak’s voice shakes, and when he finally raises his head, he finds Even’s eyes are filled with tears, and that’s what does it, that’s what breaks him, like a crack in the dam - a painful itch flooding his mouth with saliva, his eyes clouding up; any moment now, they’ll threaten to spill over.

He looks back at his hands, where he’s picking at one of the cuticles. Picking and picking until the skin separates. “I told him I was looking for a new place. He said to me his friend Yanny just moved in with his boyfriend and he needed a roommate. And by the end of the week, that was that.”

"Isak," Even swallows thickly. He just keeps saying his name over and over again. “Isak. I’m so fucking sorry. Fuck, I mean, sorry isn’t enough, and I hate that - I just wished you didn't have to go through it alone - ” Even is crying now, and it hurts Isak to witness it, though he must. He must witness it.

“You don’t have to be sorry. It was my own fault,” Isak argues, unseeing. “I suspected - no, I  _knew_ something was off about that piece of shit, but I said nothing, and I did nothing, and I just - ignored every single red flag, and I didn’t reach out to anyone, and I made it so easy, I was such an easy target for him - “

“No,” Even disagrees vehemently, voice surprisingly strong and clear, “Don’t blame yourself. This isn’t your fault. What happened to you was not your fault.”

“But I - ”

“No,” Even repeats, fiercer still. Gaze so sharp despite how red and wet his eyes are. He grabs at Isak’s fingers, pulling them away from where he’s picking at it, the cuticle long gone. In its place is a small flow of blood trickling down his knuckle. Even doesn’t give him his hand back. “It’s not your fault.”

“Even - “

“It’s not your fault,” he insists.

Something inside him breaks. His voice wobbles terribly, “After, I - went and got tested. Results were negative for everything. Martin, he - he told me I could go to the police, but I had no fucking evidence. I had nothing. I didn't  _know_. What would I say?  Sabine, and Martin - they tried - but I couldn’t face telling you. Not when we’d just started talking. Not when you were in Oslo, and I knew it would break your heart, and I knew you’d try to come - ”

“Of course I would have!”

“- but that’s my point. I couldn’t do that to you. What about university? What about your life? It was too much,” Isak cries, “And I was so embarrassed. I didn’t know how I’d bring it up, or how you’d take it. I knew it would hurt you, and after, maybe things wouldn’t be -”

“I wouldn’t have - there wasn’t - ” Even protests, losing his train of thought and shaking his head. The fight disappears out of him and his shoulders slump forward, still holding onto Isak’s hands like they're about to say a prayer together. “I’m so sad you were scared it would change something between us. It wouldn’t.”

“It already had,” Isak says sombrely, muted now. “I know we haven’t had sex since that first time in January. I knew you wondered why I was holding out, because never before had I been so fucking  _shy_. Remember? Don’t deny it.”

“I - “

Isak just barrels on. “I just wanted to tell you what happened first. I don't know, it just - felt wrong not to. But then it felt stupid to tell you too, because - I don't even fucking  _know_  if anything happened to me. I really don't. But still, I felt totally -  _used,_ " he's really said it now, the worst part of it, how empty and alien he's found his own body since. How disassociation is the only option at times; something like winning in a game only to realise you're not really winning at all. That winning doesn't even exist. And it's not a game. He can't stop the tears now, how they roll right off the end of his nose. "I didn't know what to say. I needed more time, so I said - "

He remembers trying to find the best time to bring it up this summer, but when was the best, time, for something so terrible, really? Fear courses through him at the imagined prospect, regardless of the fact that he’s doing it right now. Right now, naked in the bath. Naked in his memories. Naked in his humiliation. What if he let Even fuck him again, and suddenly it unlocked some buried memory, and he’d be full of triggers, incapable of pretending he wasn’t freaking out? All summer he tried to avoid this from happening. He knew that would be far more terrible, for Even to find out that way, to be implicated in Isak’s web of secrets. And Even knew something was up, because he - more than once, they came close, so close and - Isak always withdrew. He wondered if it hurt his feelings. He tries not to think about it. 

“ -you wanted to ‘take it slow,’” a great sigh releases from Even as he realises, and it permeates the room for a single tormenting moment. Isak knows Even is remembering all the times something felt amiss. He wonders if Even's remembering the time he offered to let Isak fuck  _him_ , and how Isak refused, and he gave no reason - no real reason, when there was one, a really fucking crucial one, and it's an encompassing, drowning kind of guilt they're swimming in now.

“I wanted to tell you everything, but I was scared you would look at me, and you would see - “ he cuts himself off, unable to finish that sentence. “I didn’t want to you to be sad. And I knew, I knew this would make you so sad.”

“It is sad,” Even agrees, and he’s not crying anymore, but the evidence is all over his face, in the knotted twist of his brows, and his wet, clumpy eyelashes. Shampoo still in his hair. “But I’d never look at you differently, you know that, right? What happened - it’s not your fault, Isak.”

Isak can’t speak. He doesn’t even know if he looks at himself the same way he used to anymore. Something must show on his face, something he refuses to name, because a second later Even’s pulling him into an embrace.

It doesn’t matter how difficult it is to do so, how uncomfortable it is due to their long legs and lack of space, no matter the water is finally spilling over onto the floor, no matter Isak nearly inhales a swathe of shampoo suds on his neck. Even engulfs him, swallows him up, hides him away from the rest of the world.

It doesn’t matter, because it is necessary. Necessary to be held by Even, to hear him whisper, “It’s not your fault,” over and over again. Where all feels impossible and condemned in this verdant, lush Tuesday morning, but at the same time, hopeful; so hopeful, and terrifying, and real.

-

[TIRSDAG 06:06](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ew4FWW1q200)

 

They leave a trail of puddles from the toilet to his bedroom, the flat flooded with a crepuscular sun, one which leaves them both bathed in gold every time the light falls directly upon them. Isak is a strange combination of awake and exhausted and he doesn’t need to guess that Even is similarly wired with all that he knows now. They left that bathtub irrevocably different to when they entered it.

He worries this will fuck up Even’s sleep now, this tide of drama will ride out until Even’s awash on the shores of mania again. How the stress may press into him, until he's nothing but darkness, in his heart, his limbs, in the ache behind his eyelids. Isak bites back against the itch in his throat, tries to calm his worries, but it threatens to overwhelm him, like being swept out to sea.

He hugs Even in the middle of his bedroom, water evaporating off their naked bodies. Even drops his towel to hug Isak back, and they stand there for a second.

“Listen,” Even says when he pulls away, his fingers brushing against Isak’s hair. “You haven’t ruined anything. I mean it. Please don’t blame yourself. I'm just glad you told me. Okay?”

A voice in his brain insists that Even doesn’t know this, and therefore his promises are empty. Even may never look at him the same way. But those thoughts are interrupted when Even taps the top of his nose.

“Hey, Isak. Okay?”

He nods, eyes fluttering closed. Then open again. “I am sorry though, for not telling you sooner.”

“Babe - ” Even sounds on the tinges of exasperated, but then he stops and softens again. “Please. It’s - I understand, I really do. It’s okay. It’s all water under the bridge now.”

Isak wrinkles his nose. “Since when do you say that?”

“I don’t know,  I’ve said it before,” Even shrugs. “But the point is. From now on, no matter what it is. You can tell me things - please, you can tell me anything. I'll be there. And I’ll never threaten our relationship just because I’m upset again either. I promise you this, okay?”

“Okay. I promise, too,” Isak adds.

“Someone very smart told me once that we can take it minute by minute, when everything feels fucked up. I think that’s worth remembering now,“ Even tries to smile reassuringly, but his eyes are a little too swollen, and he looks sort of delicate, the way he’s staring at Isak. He realises Even is waiting for him to acknowledge it.

He nods in agreement.

Even nods as well. “Good. Fuck, I’m so fucking tired now.”

Neither of them bother with clothes, instead crawling into bed and collapsing together in a tangle of limbs. There's no other body in the world as familiar to him as Even's. Even wraps his arms around him, running his hand down the side of his face, just the barest of touches. In response Isak settles in, tilts his head up, and noses at his mouth, perchance for a kiss.

He’s been asking for Even’s mouth since they met. It feels like so long ago, and also just yesterday. A timeless continuation where, as life tramples inevitably onward, there exist pockets of time which consist only of their mouths. Mouths meeting each other in the middle; mouths soft, fervent, heady or absent minded - whichever the moment, they run like a loop in Isak’s brain. Minutes upon minutes of this, infinite in every universe.

As they kiss Even’s hands coming up to frame his face, and they’re consumed in each other, and it’s irrelevant whose legs are whose, which hipbone or elbow is where - just skin on skin, like a wave of sheer closeness overwhelming his senses. A holiness permeate their bodies, the kind of devotion prayers can’t begin to fathom.

In another universe, it would escalate. Even would roll on top of him and sit back on his haunches, expression caught up in the giddy desire, determined as to make him unravel in a pitiful mess of lust. Isak would arch up into him, his dick hard, thighs straining for purchase, for a touch, anything.

There’d be a moment where Even would purposefully withdraw his hands,  teasing and gleeful and so powerful, so powerful in his knowledge of how to make Isak beg for him, to ask brazenly for what he wants. He always loved luring Isak’s inner most fantasies out in the open, in the space between them, where it was private and safe and just them. Only them.

Maybe he’d nudge Isak over, pull him up onto his hands and knees, a thumb sliding down his spin, down between his cheeks, and he’d kiss him there, right there the ring of muscle is, knowing it would unlock a wanton fervour in Isak, anticipating what would come next. Maybe they’d start to fuck, and without having to consider it Isak knows he misses it, misses the process of Even lubing him up and fingering him, one, and then two, and then three - until he was outright asking for it, just give it to me now, babe, I’m ready -

But in this universe, Isak only kisses him again. A little slower, until they drop off at a natural lull, their lips mirror images of slack pinkness. They lie together on the same pillow, Even’s hand never leaving his head, deep in the curly tresses of his hair.

“I hate not telling you things,” he confesses. “It’s just hard to know where to start.”

Even nods. “I understand.”

“Will you - what time do you have to go in later?”

A groan rips out of Even at the reminder of their impending reality. “Fuck. Probably three. But then - I promise. It’ll be finished. Or at least I will be. And on Wednesday we’ll have the entire day just to ourselves.”

Before he leaves again. The idea of it is so painful for Isak to fathom now. Not when he already feels so raw.

“Okay,” Isak nods. He sits up, grappling for his phone and setting an alarm. “I’ll make sure you’re awake.”

“Thank you,” he smiles. His shutting eyes briefly, and then fluttering open again.

Above them are ten postcards, as defining to their existence as an inscription on a headstone. How many months has it been since Isak took them from Fagerborg? He counts backwards and ends up with eight. Eight months. And how many months has it been since Even sent them? He counts again, loses track, and starts over. Many months before. They were broken up and had been for a few months then, but Even wrote them anyway, wove them a parallel universe where they were still together and his mother wasn't forgotten in Oslo, and - well, they're little pieces of his soul, aren't they? Stamped and dated and worn around the edges. Isak thinks he'll never treasure anything else exactly the same way.

Adjacent on the window sill is his journal. Like the postcards, it too is a falsely innocuous artefact. He just stares at it and is capable of thinking only one thing.  All summer he wondered if he’d have the courage to bring it up, let alone show him. Up until this very moment, he thought he’d never be brave enough to. But now is the time to act.

“When I started seeing Sabine, she asked me to start keeping a journal. I was supposed to write every day after I woke up, but that was fucking difficult. But then it got easier, I guess. And I kind of liked it, because I was also reading my mother’s - so it felt, like -”

“Like paying homage?” Even guesses, and Isak smiles, because yes - fuck, exactly. It’s so freeing to be understood, and it's very clear what he needs to do now. “I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” he shrugs. “I was kind of embarrassed. You know I’m not really a writer.”

“So you’ve said, on multiple occasions,” Even sighs.

“I want you to read it,” he places it on the bedside table, next to Even’s wallet.

Isak knows he’s flawed in this area. He doesn’t always want to own up to all these feelings, playing fast and loose with his heart, trapped behind his teeth and carving up the inside of his mouth.

This could be a way to help, he thinks. The shadows and secrets and loneliness, all trapped like a well inside of him, trickling out of him one by one. The more Even knows, the more Even understands - the better they could be. Maybe it would be easier for Isak to talk about it. Or maybe it wouldn’t. There’s only one way to find out now.

There's only quietness. Even's looking up at him, doused in gold again.  

“But only if you want,” Isak adds, swallowing, “You don’t have to, if you don’t have any time - ”

“If you want me to, of course I want to,” Even interrupts him. “I’ll make time. I’ll read it.”

Isak doesn’t hesitate again. He knows him well enough to know Even’s adamant and honest and anyway, he’s naked here, in Isak’s bed, after Isak told him the single most devastating truth, and this is it, isn’t it?

No matter what, it's always been the same story with them. Since he was a teenager - a child, like Sabine would say - Even’s seen him for who he is. A rush of love fills his heart, so warm and intense. He lies back down next to him, pulling the thin sheet around them, and reaches for Even’s hand, clasped between them. Isak waits for him to close his eyes first, and he watches as he drifts off to sleep, ponders the mystery of falling in love, how one person can arrive in your life, by accident or by cosmic design and change it forever.

A prayer floats through his head, one he remembers as a child. He’d put his hands together at the edge of his bed, his mother next to him, smelling like rose and vetiver perfume. The words arrive within him as if they never went away in the first place. Isak closes his eyes.

Now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

May the angels watch me through the night,

and keep me in their blessed sight -

Amen.

 

-

 

TIRSDAG 09:11

 

“Good morning,” Isak says to Martin’s back, and it sends him jumping nearly a metre in the air, turning around with wide eyes and yielding his spatula at him, little flecks of grease falling onto the floor. He laughs a little. “Er, sorry, did I scare you?”

“No, I didn’t expect you to be awake, is all,”  Martin rolls his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Everything okay? I thought I heard you earlier, but - “

“Even got back this morning, and he’ll be sleeping until the afternoon,” Isak explains. He sits down at the table and Martin returns to face the counter, breaking extra eggs into the pan. He grabs a grapefruit from the hanging basket, which Isak has since re-trained himself to avoid now.

“You want one egg or two?”

“Two is good, thank you,” he says. It feels a little too cordial still. There’s already coffee made, along with the usual pile of toast and their litany of spreads and jams, but the table is set for one. For some reason this makes him a little sad. They’ve had this tradition as long as they’ve had anything; Isak has no real routines with anyone else. 

“So, everything okay?” Martin turns with a raised brow. His hair is a curly mess of dark brown and blonde on his hair, and he’s wearing an oversized [t-shirt](https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/1347/1163/products/CHER_M_BLK.jpg?v=1499443284) and a pair of sweatpants Isak thinks are definitely his, judging by now long they are at the bottom. He looks smaller somehow, and oddly vulnerable in this outfit, out of place amongst the rest of the zealous commotion this kitchen contains. Isak checks to see that at least his earrings are still intact, and is relieved they’re still dangling.

“I - yeah, everything is okay,” Isak says, though it still feels so raw and fresh and unnerving, and it's with shaky confidence that he professes this. “We talked, we’re fine.”

“See?” his roommate looks at him gently, before serving up their eggs and sitting across from him. “Told you so.”

Isak doesn’t bother rebuking Martin, though the familiar territory beckons him. Martin drops a handful of vitamins next to Isak's juice, and it looks like any other morning, except it isn't. He just butters his toast, and nods. “Yeah, you were right.”

He starts to eat, and but pauses when he catches Martin regarding him somewhat suspiciously over the rim of his coffee mug. “What?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs. “I was just expecting at least one sassy come back, is all. Are you feeling okay? Sick? Are you warm? Let me touch your head - “

“I’m fine, Martini, Jesus,” Isak rolls his eyes, batting his hand back. Martin sits back down in his chair, but he doesn’t seem reassured. “I mean it, I really am. Like, it’s just been a long night, I haven’t really slept well.”

“You never sleep well, and that’s never stopped you before from being a grumpy  _arschloch_ \- "

“Well, maybe I feel a bit bad, about all the times I’ve been that grumpy asshole, okay?” Martin raises an eyebrow, mouth forming a comical 'o' with a tilt of his head in consideration.

“Oh,” he nods slowly. “I see.”

“You were right,” Isak swallows. “Okay? You were right. About the truth. I told Even. Everything.”

“Everything? Including - “

“ _Yeah_ , that’s why I just said everything, Martini,” a note of impatience now in his voice. "That's what I mean. And before you - say anything else, I don't want to talk about it, at least not right now. Okay? Maybe later. I just had this conversation two hours ago, it's too much. My brain is fried."

At first there’s no reaction. Then Martin turns around in his seat, goes to the small shelf under the sink and rummages around before retrieving a large bottle vodka, pouring two frankly robust servings into two short green coloured glasses. He's quiet in his ministrations, which is odd in itself. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Isak comments wryly, “Did I miss something?”

“I think it's obvious this calls for a fucking drink of five,” Martin says by way of explanation, “Besides, if we mix it with grapefruit juice, it’s  _practically_ a Mimosa. And you can have those at breakfast.”

“Except it’s not at all the same,” he rolls his eyes, nevertheless he can't withhold his laughter, because that’s so typical of Martin, isn’t it? “What, are you going to juice a bunch of grapefruits right now? Your food will get cold.”

“Hah!” Martin throws his head back, laugh saturated in mirth. He yanks the fridge open and reemerges with a glass tumbler full of grapefruit juice. “ _Mon chou,_  you think I’m fucking messing around here?”

Isak can’t help but laugh then, the knot loosening in his chest the longer he sits, and in return, Martin shimmers with a little extra vivacity; the kind he has when someone is willing to indulge him, especially when that somebody is Isak.

They cheers. It’s truly intense, how tart and biting the juice is, but it masks the vodka efficiently. “At least it’s not Korn,” he acknowledges.

“Agreed,” Martin says seriously. “ _Prost._  We don't have to get into it, but I’m proud of you, you know that?”

Isak wonders how he does it; how he straddles the balance between being sensitive enough to gauge Isak's mood without calling it out between them. He's always admired Martin's ability to care. He imagines it must come with a cost.

He smiles. “Yes, I know, you’ve said before.”

Martin rolls his eyes, but when his phone pings with several new messages he doesn’t look down at it. “Well, that’s because it’s true. I'm sure it wasn't pretty. But it’s good, it’s good to be honest.”

“You’re right.”

“And, you know - it’s good not deal with these kinds of things alone.”

Isak chews on his egg and nods. “That’s also true.”

“Mmm,” Martin hums, before downing the rest of his drink and fixing himself another.

They eat in a companionable intermission of chewing and drinking, before Isak swallows and says, "Remember the last time we did this? Your mother was here visiting, and I was about to leave for Oslo, and we had breakfast drinks at like nine am - what was it that time?"

"Oh, Lord, that was Chamomile tea and whiskey," he supplies. "Maman's favourite warm drink. I think she had some kind of sore throat from the dry air on the plane, which is why we were drinking it specifically."

"I just remember you waking me up at eight to inform me that  _I_  needed to get down to the nearest liquor store and pick up - what was it? Some decade old Cognac? And it took me nearly twenty minutes to even find a liquor shop open that early."

" _Vicomte_ , of course. She can taste the difference between the eight year and ten year casks. Absolutely legend, that woman. God, I remember my entire childhood these random, drunk adults - you know when you're little, and they're pretending not to be fucked up, but just because you're a child doesn't mean you're a fucking idiot? God. So cringe. Anyway, my mother's friends were always telling me about these parties she would throw, while I was in Berlin during the summers, or at boarding school - shit like these weird 'risque swinger' type Ski holidays in the Alps. And I'll never forget when someone told me she was the original inspiration for Jane's original wicker basket, because  _of course_  she was close with [Serge Gainsbourg](http://www.anothermag.com/fashion-beauty/7996/the-secret-stories-of-jane-birkin-and-serge-gainsbourg) -"

Isak has no idea what a risque swing party in the Swiss Alps amounts to, nor does he know who Serge Gainsborough is. "That whiskey fucked me up on a next level. God, I never saw it coming, but I should have, because it was so _good_ , but at the same time, I was like - she's your mom. So it can't be that out of order. But then again, it is  _your_  mother, but - Christ - "

Martin chuckles, likewise remembering, "She drank us both under the table by eleven, and we were so fucking drunk we could hardly make it to lunch plans we had with her cousins. We showed up for tea-time at Laudree, twenty minutes late and completely fucked."

"I don't know what happened to me, but I fell asleep in the chair on the balcony," Isak shakes his head. "And I'm pretty sure I smoked like twenty of those long, skinny cigarettes when she was here. She had like forty cartons of them. I never - "

"Oh, the Vogues, the Vogues," Martin sings along, clapping his hands together. "Well, in Switzerland we call them  _Parisienne_  - but same shit. A symbol of my childhood, if there ever was one."

"Which would explain a lot," he can't help but tease him a little about his mother's eccentricities.

A petite, fur-wearing, chain smoking self-described Swiss Catherine Deneuve, with the pale corn silk hair and heavily jewelled fingers. Paired along with her penchant for expensive alcohol and a life-long Francophile obsession, Martin's mother, aptly called Martine herself, was like no other woman Isak had ever encountered. She adored him immediately, though he was unsure for which reason exactly. Nevertheless, it was a free flowing source of affection and admiration he'd found difficult to understand and impossible to resist.

Isak found the entire situation fascinating and strange; he'd never known someone's mother to be such a stark divergence of the normative expectation of middle-aged women, except for his own mother. He didn't foresee the connection with her son being complicated in it's own way, either, without being defined by past unresolved family traumas. Frankly put, Martin's childhood was not easy, but he's never known what abandonment feels like either. 

During her entire stay, there was a constant stream of instances to compare to his own mother, even if there were no immediately applicable circumstances. This cycle was further perpetuated by the fact that as a mother herself, it was only natural for her to inquire about his own upbringing; a topic which resolutely stays in the top five least favourite conversations to contribute to. Martin tried to temper this best he could, which Isak was extremely grateful for. 

It was also difficult not to imagine his mother in this scenario; in many ways it was impossible to. Not just because she was dead, but because it was near impossible to imagine her involved in his life in the same manner as Martin's mom. Visits three times a year, summer holidays taken together, phone calls on Wednesday mornings. Even in the last few years she was alive, their relationship was estranged and distant, and the prospect of her visiting Berlin seemed unfathomable. These kind of realisations used to keep him awake late into the night, and often ate up entire afternoons with Sabine.

"I resent your implication, though I know it to be true," Martin responds flatly, but he's tickled, Isak knows it. "Anyway. I'm pretty sure Maman loved you the most."

"I really doubt that," he argues. "She mostly felt sorry for me because I was an orphan."

"Oh my God, for the last time, she didn't - "

"Um, I know what ' _l' orphelin_ ' means, I googled it - "

"False! She said, 'oh, that Isak, that precious child, if he weren't into boys and I a little younger, I'd take him home with me in a second.' Hah! Yes, she did, she said that, and she doesn't just say that about just anyone, especially my friends. That's the fucking tea right there. She loved you the most because I told her you were my favourite of all the flatmates I've ever had. It's true."

“Stop being sentimental, Martini,” Isak shakes his head. “You’re only on your second drink. And that’s bullshit anyway and you know it, Yanny - "

“Yanny was always stealing my press-on sequins, which he would then immediately lose, he broke my favourite leather harness, which I'm still not over, by the way - and he never bought toilet paper,” Martin raises his eyebrows. “I love him, he’s one of my besties. But living with him was _parfois difficile_.”

“Oh, and I'm such a walk in the park,” Isak bites, but then shrugs. “But what do I know? I certainly don't have any normal living situations from before to compare it to either."

“I'll fucking toast to that, Jesus Christ. Understatement of the year,” Martin urges Isak to finish his drink, and when he does, tipping it back and swallowing down the rest, he promptly tops it off again. He eyes it with a little wariness, but the first one is already turning his insides warm and supple and it starts to matter a little less the more he sips it.  "Except for Even, of course. I always forget you two have already lived together. How dreamy."

“You think everything about Even is dreamy," Isak reminds him with a pointed brow. "And it wasn't - I mean, we shared  _one_  room in Oslo while I was still in high school,” Isak chuckles. “Far from dreamy, in the day-to-day reality. But when you're seventeen it hardly matters what it is, so long as you do it together.”

“First time is like one big gay adventure, isn’t it,” he plods along. His cheek folds into his hand and his eyes are round and imploring over their breakfast. “Oh, you know, if it were anyone else. Anyone else but him. I'd say it's too early to go."

“Martini,” Isak groans, but even he can’t fight the smile on his face. He takes another big sip. “I told you, I’m not leaving any time soon. Remember, not until - “

“Yeah, I know, I know, not until after you graduate,” he nods. “But I'm just saying - if you were leaving in January - which I  _know_  you're not, okay, but if you  _were_  - well, that's just how it would have to be."

He's not sure if it's the second drink, but Isak is touched by this sentiment. Martin makes no acknowledgement he's said something profound, but it coats their conversation in a moment of silence as it sinks in.

“Well, I know you don't like to leave Berlin often but - Klingon or not - Oslo  _is_ quite nice. And we can go dancing, if you were to come visit,” Isak smiles with a small shrug, and Martin claps his hands with a renewed spark of enthusiasm.

“You have yourself a deal. You better not be offering and then not actually mean it, because one day I’m just going to show the fuck up with a suitcase full of leotards, and then what are you going to do?”

“Wear the leotards,” he rolls his eyes. "Obviously."

“Right answer. Now have another drink,” Martin chirps. He doesn’t wait for Isak either before pouring him another. "We're celebrating."

Isak doesn’t even protest it now; he’s floating in the moment. It’s the most free he’s felt in weeks, regardless it’s definitely brought upon by the alcohol and sheer exhaustion. But some of it is a hesitant contentment, a distinct lack of fear for the months to come. Even’s described this feeling before, in one of the post cards. How did he word it? A lightness of being. Isak's never been able to let it go since he read it that first time. 

"Er...I just wanted to say, like, I know we've patched things up," Isak sniffs. "I'm not bringing it up again  - I'm just gonna say, thanks. For dealing with...Stefan, at B.- and just in general, this entire...shit show the last few months. Thanks for being there. You didn't have to, but you were."

Martin sips his drink, and Isak wonders if he's made the moment too soft by drunk-babbling his feelings. But another voice in his head, louder than before, argues that it's necessary he fucking just tell the truth for once, without hesitancy shrouding every emotional insight. A moment later he says, "I get what you're saying, but. Don't thank me. Because that's what friends are for."

He smiles. Yeah, he's right, as usual. "Yeah, well...you're pretty brave, Martini, and I just wanted to say...I just wanted to let you know that it's not totally annoying, being your friend," he grins when Martin rolls his eyes at his lame compliment. "I mean, I  _guess_  you're cool."

"Gee, thanks. Watch me run off and write that in my gratitude journal right now," but his expression does not align with the flat, unimpressed tone he's touting. Isak can see through his bravado, knows he too is just a little tender, from the way his eyes are smiling, catching the light in a giddy, intoxicating gleam. 

The third drink goes unremarked upon, and then they're moving onto their fourth drink in a matter of minutes, and Isak thinks between this and the lack of sleep he's going to need a mid-day nap-marathon. He's finishing up his eggs when a song starts on the radio, inciting Martin to jump up with a clap of his hands, rushing to turn it up. He spins around to look at Isak over his shoulder, eyes suddenly wild, "Fuck! [This song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z7OSSUwPVM4) is my fucking anthem. Get up! Get up right now, we're dancing!"

"Ugh, no, Martini - "

"No if's and's or buts, none! It's the least it deserves. But wait!" he hesitates, turning down the dial again on the radio. "Shit, we're not going to wake up Even, are we? I don't wanna - "

Isak shakes his head. "Don't worry, he can sleep through basically anything if he's tired enough. And he is."

"Fuck, Thank God he's not as light a sleeper as you, because we  _have_  to dance, ma cher," he gushes, and cranks it up. When he sees Isak still in his seat, he reaches over and grabs him by the wrists. "Come on, get up, dance with me, oh, this song is my fucking bread and butter - "

Isak recognises it too. It is one of Martin's favourite songs, and to hear it played randomly on the radio is fucking special, he won't deny it. He's experienced this too at times, and it always feels like the universe is calling out to him in some small way. It somehow still feels significant. His cheeks are ruddy and warm to touch; it's not even ten in the morning and he's already two eggs and four cups of vodka diluted only by grapefruit juice in already. As far as mornings go they've been in worse states, but nevertheless, he relents his reluctance, forgets himself, and moves around their cramped table to Martin's outstretched hands. It'd be wrong to resist.

Together they spin around in ebullient peals of laughter, knocking into shit every time the inertia pulls them out of sync; Martin singing along to every word, and Isak just grateful to be dizzy and lush before the sun streaked kitchen window. Never mind that they're staggering into the dangling spider plants and heavy pans hanging on the wall. As Martin belts out the chorus, Isak laughs and stumbles back into the counter, head back and hands Voguing, and failing miserably to keep up a rhythm. It doesn't matter though. For a brief moment he witnesses his own existence, in one single moment of clarity: this is happiness. It's not life solving itself on his doorstep. It's not bringing his mother back to the living or absolving himself of any guilt or grief. It's not a promise, or a journey, or a destination. It's a feeling. It's a feeling like any other, fleeting, and beautiful, and it's over within mere minutes, but within this small pocket of time it feels endless.

He's swept up in it, dancing erratically in a irresponsibly small kitchen, drunk before half ten with his best friend. All those times they’ve danced in this kitchen before, and yet it's never felt quite like this. His lover asleep soundly in the next room; his lover, the artist with paint stained fingers bleeding onto the sheets; his lover, the blue eyed dreamer, still dreaming of universes where they’ve been together forever. The lover of his impossible soul. Only hours ago, his secrets, which once kept him tethered in a poisonous choke-hold, no longer hold the same power, and their grip on him already is receding. It is dizzying in more ways than one.

His hands are sweating in Martin's as they twirl around the kitchen, nearly stumbling over the corner of the kitchen rug and falling into each other. Isak thinks he could float away before the song ends, until Martin does end up knocking his head into the fruit basket, stumbling back into Isak and bringing them both down hard. There surely will be bruises later, but it hardly occurs to him to worry abut it now. Not when Martin's still shimming his shoulders from the ground, not with his head tilted back as he laughs so hard he needs to clutch his wheezing chest, trying to find his breath. Not when he can feel his heart underneath his fingers, pulsating in steady couplets, irrefutably alive and singing.

-

[TIRSDAG 19:44](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mTlyklNcn80)

“Martin, I’m leaving now - “ Isak calls out into the apartment. He spots a familiar headscarf through the kitchen window out on the balcony. Like Isak’s designated spot on the crates between the fridge and the spice racks, where he can curl up and listen to music and point at the moon, Martin’s is the wicker chair on the balcony facing the east rising sun. It’s his preferred station when he’s on the phone, where one can see the tree tops of Templehof in the distance and the mismatched horizon, amongst a puzzle of buildings, and he can multi-task, his cigarette perched over his favourite ceramic ashtray, feet up on the balcony wall. Especially when his mother calls, as they oft end up talking for hours and Martin likes being comfortable for those kinds of sprawling conversations. 

"Hey, there you are,” he says when he steps outside. Martin’s not on the phone, but he jumps half way in his seat, apparently lost in thought until Isak interrupted him. “Er, sorry- ” 

“What time is it? I swear, I was just about to wake you up, ma cher,” Martin starts in, but Isak just shakes his head. 

“No, it’s okay. I woke up a little bit ago. No stress,” he says. “Even wants to me to meet him Tempelhof, so I’m gonna go - ”

“- I saw him when he left earlier - ” Martin pouts his lower lip, “And he said started say things like  _goodbye,_ and it made me so sad, cherie, to realise that in just a day now, - "

“Ugh, don’t get sad, because then I’ll get sad, and I’m rejecting sadness as a concept right now, I’ve already decided.”

“Of course you have.”

“But I’m sure we’ll see you tonight anyway, so don’t be a baby about it.”

Martin ashes his cigarette, making way to stand up. “Excuse you, let me be a  _bébé_  if I want. And anyway, you probably won’t see me, because I’m going out for drinks with Felix and Chiara, now that she and I are on speaking terms again.”

“Glad to hear she’s sorted herself out,” he remarks “I hope you have fun.”

“Oh, honey, me too.”

Heart tight in his chest, Isak purposely does not look at at the time when he leaves. He takes his bike. Sabine would call it a small mercy of self-care. Isak thinks it’s more in favour of winding through the small side streets in Neukölln, where the air is in his face, and he can travel in solitude over the bustle of transit. His thoughts run a muck, a ravenous kind of anticipation, wondering what is just around the corner, waiting for him. Has Even read some of his journal already? What does he think? Will he bring it up immediately? And what will it feel like? Relief? Or destruction? The possibilities that await Isak are too endless to predict.

Tempelhofer Feld was the first place he explored when he moved to this side of the city. He'd see it on the map all the time, a large strip of barren, open green space in the far southeast corner. It used to be a military airport and then a parade grounds, the long stretch of airstrip peculiar and blatant in it’s official abandonment. Sometimes they film at the old airport hub. Now it is a park filled with depots of communal gardens, cyclists, sports teams and families - remade into something new, to be shared and enjoyed, like so much of Berlin as a whole. The city without a heartbeat, still pulsating with the renewable energy of transcendence.  

Isak enters corner left entrance, just behind the Jewish cemetery, and cycles down the side pavement, eyes peeled for a glimpse of Even. He goes on for a while, wondering if he should check his phone now, or if he misunderstood Even’s directions, until -

“Hey,” he skids off his bike and onto to the ground, walking it over to where Even’s sitting on a makeshift bench out of wood pallets, situated at the fringe of a community garden. There are leaning towers of sunflowers, and the distant hum of bees nearby. He’s wearing his glasses and one of Isak’s shirts, an ancient one with Munch’s T _he Scream_ on it, sleeves rolled up to his armpits in an effort to stave off sweat. A cigarette dangles lazily between his fingers, and he flicks it when he sees Isak, standing and smiling at him. The corners of his smile tinged with a tenderness Isak knows is reserved for him.

Isak steps to him and kisses him in greeting. He smells like nicotine and mint gum, and paint again, hints of their soap underneath.

“Hi,” Even grins again. “Hey, you.”

“So,” they sit down again. “How was it? Are you done now?”

Even nods with a little sigh of relief. “Yes, finally finished.”

“Amazing,” he finds that he means it, even though he has no idea what ‘it’ is. “So, when will I get to see it?”

“In time,” Even alludes, and then wraps his arm around Isak’s shoulders, and drawing him in close. He can feel Even’s words against his temple when he says, “You are incredible.”

“Uh, okay?” Isak laughs, “Thanks? Though I do think you’re biased.”

“Nope, this is completely an objective statement,” he says. “I spent my break out here. Reading.”

He doesn’t look up at Even now, instead remaining in the comfort of their side-by-side embrace, staring at how their feet line up in the grass. Even's tone gives away nothing - is it a good thing, a bad thing? He doesn't know. He waits a beat. “And?”

“And?” Even’s shaking his head now, his tone filled with incredulity. “Well, I got a little carried away. I've been sitting out here for about an hour because so I could read. I only got into a few entries - but - Jesus."

He winces. Oh, fuck. "Shit. Is that, uh - ?"

“Isak,” Even looks him straight in the eye, and Isak doesn’t sway from his gaze. Not now. Not with this. He pulls away and reaches behind him,  journal now in his lap, held between his large hands, and here it is, the moment the spell could be broken, the moment the anticipation and dread which fills Isak is confirmed or denied. “Isak, how can you possibly think - how can you say you aren’t a writer?”

“Huh?”

Even just shakes his head impatiently, pointing at the front cover. “This. You - you wrote all this, and it's fucking - it’s so fucking _good_ , babe. What, are you surprised? Are we not speaking the same language, here?”

Without waiting for him to answer, Even thumbs open a page, finger drawing an invisible line down the middle, until he finds the entry he wants. “Ah - here.”

A shock to his system, turning his organs fuzzy and electric, when Even starts to read, “'I've never known how to describe you. Words fall just short of aptly trying to explain what I mean here, when I talk about yellow, when I talk about the sun, when I talk about blinking against your brightness - it all goes to shit, because you're not just yellow, are you? You're a deep blue and I'm at the very bottom, so no matter how much light comes through it all sinks down into me. This navy fullness. You, you you. And little me. A vastness of you; me treading forever. How the fuck am I supposed to tell someone that?'”

“Even -”

He ignores him, continuing on. "'Of course, other people also see this duality in you. This essence. People notice when you walk into a room, I see them notice, because I too am watching. What's that word for it - captivating. Or maybe enigmatic. Well, I'd tell you one thing, one thing that's true: they only say your enigmatic because they don't know shit. They don't know how to deal with how you make them feel, just by the proximity of your sheer presence. You leave an impression which feels more like a wound sometimes, I know it sounds harsh, but it's actually a compliment. It's like...the closest I can come up with is when you took me to that very first [exhibition](http://www.nasjonalmuseet.no/en/exhibitions_and_events/exhibitions/museum_of_contemporary_art/SNAP.+Documentary+and+portrait+photography+from+the+collection.b7C_wBfM2V.ips) I'd ever been to. We'd been together, what - three months at that point, and you - well, I walked around, incapable of focusing on one thing first, because even though I understood none of it, I knew it was important. Afterwards I left with the understanding that something in me had been changed forever. And that's you, that's you right there. You're a painting. People pause when they come across you, unaware of how to articulate their fascination, and yet, are incapable of looking away for even a second. And...well, I fail to describe art adequately anyway. But you. Sometimes, with you, only left is a feeling sitting in the seat of my stomach, a wanting, a yearning…’” Even pauses, his voice turned hushed and molten warm, “‘the soft, swift devastation of...an unconquerable love.’”

It’s entirely bizarre to hear these words out loud. Almost like they’re someone else’s - except it's not. It’s him. It shouldn't be a surprise at all. He even remembers when he wrote it; it was just after wished Even a happy birthday, and he heard the joyous surprise of Even’s voice on the other side, and it all sprung upon him again in one fell swoop. God, how he loved Even, how he missed hearing his voice everyday. It was a ten minute phone call, mostly to do with his birthday plans, and yet it left him stunned. The returning swoop of butterflies; how ravenous they were curled up in his mouth. He was so grateful he mustered up the energy and the courage to make the call in the first place. After, sitting at his desk overlooking the very park they’re now sitting in, he took out his journal and tried to write about that feeling.

“You wrote that about me, right?” Even says, and Isak zones back in again. He nods. Even nods. Then he says, “Okay. Well. No one's ever written anything about me before. Like  _that_. And you - your writing, I mean, from your letters, I had an idea of what I could expect. But let me tell you. It still wasn't  _this_. This is something else. I can hear your voice so clearly in. It's very unassuming, and honest and not hesitant. And it's so beautiful.”

“But...it’s just my journal,” Isak tries to excuse, “I had to be honest. It’s the only way - I couldn’t write if I thought someone might read it. It wouldn’t work,” he slips off his Birkenstocks absentmindedly, running his toes through the shorn grass here. “And - what do you mean, no one’s ever - ”

“No one,” Even reiterates with a single shake of his head. “I’m never been someone’s  _muse_ before.”

“But you’re -”

“An artist,” he reminds him. Suddenly his point is illuminated to Isak. “I have to say, I was startled by it. I was surprised, I felt - ”

Before Isak even knows what he’s going to say, the words tumble out of his mouth, “A little small?”

Soon the sun will begin to set, and it imbues them in an effulgent orange hue. Even’s eyes are so blue as he stares at Isak, taken aback. Well, he thinks, that would make two of them.   

“Yes,” Even concedes. “That’s - yes - exactly, how did you - ?”

“Maybe you’ve never been - the centre of someone's  _project_  before,” Isak acknowledges, “But _I_ have.”

A dumbfounded expression defines Even’s face, and then it is replaced by a growing smile of recognition. “Yes,” he agrees, “You have. Of course you have. I guess, you know - all those times, I made you sit for a photograph, or I painted you, and I knew you were sometimes - uncomfortable, but I never - I never thought to ask, what it actually felt like. That maybe it wouldn't always be so - it doesn't always feel like a gift."

“I didn’t mind it,” Isak shakes his head. “I've told you before, I don't. Because I get it. I guess I get it now more than I did, but. It's just - small in a humbling way. You think, fuck, how can I measure up to  _that_? How can I be the person in those portraits? But it's not - that's a not a negative thing at all. It's more like, I'm always surprised to see what you see in me. It can be a lot, you know, a lot, to be so - "

“Beloved?” Even’s grinning, head tilted slightly. “And what I realise now, is when - you writing about me, it's just as much part of you, as it is part of me. And when I painted you, when I did that Red series - it was a lot about me. How I felt, too. But...wow, reading that. Holy shit, babe. It’s a gift, a harrowing little gift, to know what you think, when you think of me.”

Isak nods. He almost says, so you must then see, that you too, are just as beloved? How did it feel, to tremble before the enormity of my feelings towards you? It's a strangely equalising feeling, in a way Isak could have never anticipated. Here we are, plainly ourselves. Without apology.

“I hope so. It’s - but - wasn’t it hard, for you? To read these things I wrote?” he prods. “Not everything in there is so nice.”

Even nods. “There are quite a few entries I started and then had to stop, because they - they’re the kind of thing to demand my time. Rightly so. There’s a so much I want to think about, when I can dedicate the space for it. I was thinking, actually. And feel free to say no. But would you - would it be okay if I took this back with me?”

“Yeah,” Isak glances down at the journal. “I started a new one when I left for Oslo anyway. I want you to keep it. For as long as you want to, I mean.”

“And - and would you be opposed, if I wrote you? I could write you some thoughts. Just like you wrote me,” he suggests blithely, and yet, there’s a hint in his tone that indicates how much it would mean to him, how much it already means to him. Even won't let this go, not anytime soon. His life a production of full-circles and life lessons and grand gestures, with a single silver thread of potent meaning running through it.

“You may,” he nods. Unsure how to prod at the tingling relief spreading through his chest. “I’m sorry if I’m not, like - saying anything. I don’t really know what to say. But I’m relieved. I’m so fucking relieved.”

“The only thing I ask now,” Even says seriously, “Is that you stop this bullshit about you not being a writer. You know why? It’s just not true, Isak. You are - you  _are_ a writer. Just like your mother.”

He’s not sure whether he wants to throw his arms around Even or burst into nervous, ugly tears, teeth biting down into his bottom lip so swiftly and painfully he realises he’s broken the skin there. When he licks over it, it’s salty like rust, the tell-tale sign he's split his lip. Even notices, because of course he does, and he tilts Isak’s chin up, eyes favouring the wound.

“Thank you,” it’s hushed like a confession, Isak speaking around Even’s thumb where it’s migrated to the centre of his mouth, considering. He pulls it away to lick the spot of cherry red blood on his thumb, smiling as he does it. Isak thinks he’ll never truly get used to it; Even looking at him this way. Even touching him so reverently. The first time, the second time, the next time or any other time besides right now. Here or anywhere else. In this universe and all the other ones.

“It’s only the truth,” Even says before kissing Isak, tongue right in middle of his cracked lip, hands running threads through his hair. When they pull apart, Isak is a little dazed, but Even just jumps to his feet, sliding Isak’s journal and a small notebook into his bag, where it hits something inside at the bottom with a clunk. He ignores it in favour of his phone. “Oh, shit. You know what, we have to go.”

“Where?” Dreams of riding back to the apartment to continue where that kiss left off are dashed, as Isak follows suit. “You have somewhere to be?”

“Well, you could say that,” Even grabs hold of the handlebars and raises the seat. He gestures for Isak to get on the back without further explanation, and Isak, with only a little consternation at having to be the passenger on his own bicycle - fucking typical, Even, Jesus - does as he says.

“Where are we going?” he asks, hands cupping around Even’s slim hips.

But Even doesn’t answer him. He just starts to pedal.

 

-

 


	5. Part V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. Here we are. 
> 
> I'd like to thank Heidi for helping me with this chapter, and all the other chapters. For giving this verse inside-names, calming my doubts and for encouraging me, for loving any and all metaphors that have to do with HONEY. And to everyone else who reads, left kudos, commented, - made beautiful edits - and talked to me about this fic, thank you. It really wouldn't have been finished without you. I selfishly covet all the love and wish I could pour it back into this story. Please feel free to chat with me whenever. About anything - especially art. And these boys. 
> 
> If there is one song that should be listened to in this chapter,, frankly, it should be all of them, because they're all my favourites. BUT SERIOUSLY. Listen to [Harvest Moon.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iPqv_N2mOGE) I beg of you. 
> 
> Apologies for any typos - and for a frankly self-indulgent sex scene. 
> 
> You may notice that this chapter count has jumped from 1/2 to now 5/7. Listen. I can't be held responsible. What you need to know is that this is the last chapter, this is the end. 
> 
> What comes next in the coming two chapters are not continuations of this story plot wise. Instead, they are additional and missing scenes from this story that I will post in the coming week (they're already done, but I'd like a little more time with them). I'd say they're akin to Julie's scripts, though that comparison has a little bit of negative connotation now, so instead I'll say is they're not necessary to read if you don't want to, but they will be posted and are there for anyone interested. 
> 
> The line of poetry is in this story is written by me.

 

[TIRSDAG 21:02](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7IxdQUpQjqc)

 

Even’s going north, and Isak wants to ask him where exactly, and if he knows his way, but he refrains from saying saying anything, instead watching as Berlin passes beside them in an ongoing blur of traffic and other cyclists. The path along the canal spits them out into Treptower Park again, which Even cuts through, weaving through park goers passing by at ambulatory pace, enjoying the last little dregs of tangerine sunlight. They finally stop at the edge, just where the park becomes the river Spree.

“Come on,” he instructs, hiking the bike over his shoulder and pointing to the stairs that go up and around under the train tracks.

“Even, what - “

But Even doesn’t give Isak a chance to respond before he’s climbing, and Isak has no other option but to follow.

Eventually they’re nearly parallel with a club called Elsewhere, which Isak went with Martin and Felix to see a [Recondite](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ijTLPTkzLOg) open air. Even gestures over the bridge, back behind the station, and Isak follows his hand to gaze where it lands.

“Oh,” he says, breath suddenly caught in his throat. It’s a mural on the side of a block of flats behind the station. “You - ”

“The artist I’m working for is named Jan Hensen,” Even explains. “He was hired by the Commission of Museums for Modern Art in Europe Foundation, which is basically a fancy name for a bunch of wealthy museum patrons who want to….er, I guess, stimulate interest in art? So they brought in Jan, because he’s got quite a big online following, and he’s known for his murals in Berlin. There's a lot of freedom in Berlin, for artists to undertake big projects like this without too many city restrictions. He recruited a bunch of younger, lesser known muralists and artists who - need a way into the industry. This is one of five around the city.”

“You know, Yanny sent us all photos of it when it was being finished. The day before you - well, you'd already arrived, I guess,” Isak murmurs. He can’t stop staring at it. “I know this painting. Or I mean, I’ve seen it before. I don’t know where, or why, but I have.” He tries to remember the name for it, but it’s beyond him.

“Maybe you’ve seen it from Martin,” Even nods, “It’s Kirchner. ‘[Bathers at Moritzbug](https://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/kirchner-bathers-at-moritzburg-t03067).’”

“Fuck, it’s so cool. And you - ? You worked on this one?”

“No, not this one. There was a team of like, forty of us. And the idea is - well, it's not so much to advertise these specific works. But more like a reminder...or an inspiration for people to...think about art more generally. Obviously, these are very famous pieces of work, and the point was to make them...relevant, I guess? At least so people take a moment. If you look at the bathers - some of them are holding smart phones and taking photos, which, in 1909, was not possible.”

“I see it, now that you point it out. And what are the other ones?”

“We won’t make it to the others today, it's getting too dark. Tomorrow, though. There’s a rendition of Van Gogh’s [Starry Night](https://www.moma.org/learn/moma_learning/vincent-van-gogh-the-starry-night-1889/), except there’s the Berliner [Fernsehturm](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fernsehturm_Berlin) in it,” Even explains. “And Matisse’s [The Dance](https://www.henrimatisse.org/the-dance.jsp), but in the centre of the circle is a eighties’ style boombox. At Kottbusser Tor, there’s a - “

“- A [Klimt](http://www.klimt.com/en/gallery/women/klimt-die-hoffnung1-1903.ihtml). Yeah. Yanny mentioned it, when we were out,” Isak remembers suddenly, and  he squints at Even. “So basically, this mural movement that’s been going on, you’ve been attached to it all along, and when my friends were talking about it, you just - “

“Trust me, it was very difficult not to reveal what I was doing,” Even smiles, “But I was much more interested in revealing it to you, when it was finished anyway, and I wanted to keep it a surprise. Besides, Yanny only had positive things to say about it. I think he’s Jan’s biggest unknown fan.” 

“That’s probably true,” he allows. Then he shakes his head. “God, this is so fucking cool, Even. Wow. Which one did you get to work on?”

“We’re getting there. We have to go now, before we lose anymore light,” Even motions for them to get back on the bike, and Isak follows blindly, unable to take his eyes away from the mural. He thinks back to a week ago, when Martin had showed him it; at the time half completed. He hadn’t spared it more than a glance then.

 Onward they go, the night air rushing around them in little rivulets, the sun finally disappearing behind horizon, and leaving in its wake a tranquil lavender dusk.

“Anyway,” Even continues at a traffic light. “There was one last piece he couldn’t figure out - he wanted it be a post-impressionist, and he wanted to make a statement about -  I don’t know, a changing social attitude. But there was just too many - he ended up calling up his good friend Hedda, and she - bless her, she called me. Said, ‘oh, have I got a project for you.’ And a few weeks later - well. Here I am.”

“He let you - he let  _you_ choose?” Isak asks, surprised. They’re turning a corner now, heading south again, back where they came from, nearing Tempelhof again by way of Boddinstraße.

“No. I mean, it was collaborative, there was six of us in that group, and we all brought ideas to the table. I suggested what I thought,” Even shrugs, turning to glance at him for a second. “I could go into all the themes and contexts and the  _why’s_ \- but in the end, we discussed it, and decided it would be a good fit. But...because it was my idea they ended up using, I got to be the lead on this mural, at least, it’s direction, and I was so lucky, the people I worked with were some truly amazing artists. Basically we just tried to...pay an adequate tribute.”

They go down a little road alongside the park, past a pedestrian throughway , the neighbourhood brimming with that certain late summer evening energy; a gratuitous humming on every crowded cafe or bar doorstep. Then Even pulls over and stops, and Isak hops off, looking around, but there’s no mural within sight.

“Come on, it’s this way - “ down another side street, until they’re nearly the fringes of the park. They’re standing next to a battered step ladder, probably abandoned on the side of the road for the garbage man to haul away later. Only half an hour ago, on the other side of Tempelhof, they were seated on a garden bench, Isak filled with a different kind of anticipation.

Even looks around, before shuffling Isak over a couple metres into the grass, a distance away from the street and his bike. Around a couple of trees and a small garden, and all of a sudden there it is, and Isak can’t help the sharp intake of breath. The mural fills his entire line of vision. Even doesn’t need to point it out to him this time.

“Oh,” he gasps. He’d remember it anywhere. Isak remembers it being the first thing he saw in Even’s room, and standing beside it. He remembers looking over at Even, to find him already looking at him. This time is no different. 

“[Dans le Lit](https://www.toulouse-lautrec-foundation.org/In-The-Bed-Dans-Le-Lit.html),” Even murmurs in his ear, now behind him. “You rem - ”

“I remember,” Isak mutters lowly; how heavy it is to swallow. He turns to Even. “It’s so beautiful. It’s perfect.”

“Well, not perfect,” he winces, “There - well, there are always going to be things you look back on and think, I could have gotten that colour right, or this - ” upon seeing Isak’s expression, he smiles. “But. I get what you mean. Do you - can you spot the difference?”

Isak looks at it again, searching for the difference from the original. Granted he’s only seen it a handful of times - the first in Even’s room, and subsequently a few times on the internet since. He scans it for hints of a modern adjustment, even a lamp - but finds nothing.

“No,” he says slowly. “What is it?”

Even laughs under his breath. “Look, look closer. Look at who’s in the bed.”

“Fuck,” he whispers, because of course; of course: the familiar tuft of blonde hair, swirling, and  the gold mop on the other, and they’re both smiling softly, and wait, isn’t that his smile - now that he is really looking, the distinct pointed line of his mouth so unlike anyone else's - “It’s us.”

“Mm,” he agrees quietly. “It is. I mean, it can be anyone, that’s also the beauty of it. I thought, what better, than Lautrec, and what better changing social attitude, than the freedom to love whoever we want?”

“Wow,” he’s at a loss of what else to say.

Even shifts in front of him, face coming into view with a nervous expression written all over it. “I know you don’t - I know you didn’t want anyone to see the portraits I did of you. And I get that was just for us. But this - this doesn’t upset you, does it? Because I - “

“No,” he shakes his head, wishing he were better at articulating the swelling feeling inside of him, larger and larger like a balloon threatening to burst. “No, I love it. I love it so much. You did an amazing job.”

Even smiles, and it’s like someone flipped a light on behind his eyes. “Thank you. I’m glad you like it. It’s for you.”

“For me?”

“Of course, Isak!” he laughs, a robust, lovely sound springing from his mouth. “Of course it’s for you. Didn’t we just talk about this? Babe. It’s always for you.”

“Ugh, Even,” he gushes, his hands on either side of his face in paltry disbelief at this startling, insurmountable pleasure. “Every day - every fucking  _day_ , I’m going to pass this on the S45, and I’m going to think of you. Of us.”

“Fuck!” Even smacks his forehead and looks around. His every movement lined with joy and a sporadic energy as he rustles through his bag, withdrawing a small black box. “I nearly forgot. Wait, wait. Oh, this is so - we get _all_ the way here, and I forget the fucking part that I - ”

Isak regards him with humour; his desire to perfect his presentations, to get it _exactly_ right is all too familiar. He watches with giddy bemusement as Even scrambles back to the ladder - apparently not abandoned, then, and clambers onto the top step, setting up whatever it is he has in his hands. He starts to step closer, to get a better look at what it is, but Even holds a hand out, “No, no! Stay where you are! You have to, it’s the perfect view.” 

“Fine,” Isak rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t move again. “At least tell me what you’re doing?”

“No, if you can't guess, then you have to wait,” Even calls out. 

Isak looks back to Even on the ladder, scrutinising the little black box before he realises it’s a projector, not unlike the one Isak stole from Jonas this summer. Somehow, despite it being only weeks ago, it feels like a year has passed since he found Even sitting and staring his Klimt [postcard](https://78.media.tumblr.com/10e60da033107ce529f5de226c2469c3/tumblr_niwozga4yR1u9okxto1_500.png), still projected onto the side of the neighbouring building.   

“Just a second…” the tip of Even’s tongue in the corner of his mouth tells Isak’s trying to focus. He flicks a button, then another, screwing the cap off the front of it, and then goes “Okay. Shit - it’s 21:20. I have one fucking minute to get this ...Ah...ha! Wait, wait...okay, look!”

He turns to face the mural again. Before him is Dans le Lit, less visible now in the darkening sky, but no less heart-wrenching than before. Now, there is a horizontal line of glowing blue writing at the top, just above their heads. A single word at the bottom, just below the folds of the blanket. For a second he just stares, heart pumping, eyes dancing over the mural again and again, until -

“I wrote that,” Isak realises, dumbfounded. “In a letter. Fuck, you remembered?”

“Of course I remembered,” Even jumps down, arm wrapping around Isak’s shoulder. “How could I not? I couldn’t let it go. I still can’t, it was such a beautiful line. But this time - I added my answer.”

When Isak doesn’t respond immediately, Even glances down. “Uh oh. Do you not you like it?”

“No - I love it, I'm - I’m just - ” _fucking emotional,_ Isak wishes he could admit, if his Goddamn throat wouldn’t clamp shut. But perhaps Even understands anyway, from the tight squeeze he gives Isak’s arm, his cheek resting on the crown of his head. The pressure is grounding. 

He takes a breath. And another. With Even's fingers digging into his arm, Isak reads aloud the top line of text: “Does there exist a universal truth for us?”

If the entire city were silent - if every single human being on this earth took a single collective breath, and held it in at the exact same moment, Isak would still be the only one to hear Even read the answer at the bottom. “Yes.”

 

-

 

[ONSDAG 08:50](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nkGaU6cmjfU)

The day he's been dreading all along arrives. 

It starts like this.

He awakes drenched in sweat, blinking in confusion against the abrasive sunshine on his face; still clutching at the last tenterhooks of a dream farther and farther away. Abruptly he understands what kind of dream it was without having to really think it, because he's horny, hips chasing a little air as he shuffles.

He sees a flash of the dream in his head again, and he thinks, yes, and  _oh_ , and blinks a couple of times. He's straining under this intense heat until he's stretching his body back against Even's. It feels so good. His body feels like muscle memory, the way they slot together. Even still curls around him as he wakes up, but within seconds he's pressing an open mouthed kiss to Isak's jaw.

“Good morning,” his sleep-rough voice sounding like a purr in his ear, and Isak realises that  _yes,_  he's already catching up to where Isak is now. He also aware how sweaty they are, having slept pressed together with the window closed and blind rolled up.

Well, now they're in this swelter, so fuck it, it’s not like either of them are gonna sit up to open it now. Isak elongates the length of his neck to give Even more access, and grapples blindly for his hand, bringing it around to press against his crotch and groaning with how good it feels to have Even touch him. First it's a little snap of his boxers before they're pushed down his thighs, and he's exposed.

It just turns him on more. How beatific it is of Even to make a display of him like this, rolling him out into the spot in the direct sunshine, for Isak to blink against it's brightness, spread out in front of the window for anyone to see. 

“Oh, that feels - “ he can’t even get the rest of his sentence out before Even is covering his mouth, sucking the sound right out of him, and then with a little spit and a little sweat and a smell that is musky and tantalising and  _them_ \- he starts to move it up and down along Isak’s shaft, thumb rolling against the vein just underneath his head, capable as he strokes him. “  _Yes_ \- “ 

The only response Even gives a little chuckle, as he shifts Isak closer to him, snaking an arm underneath his neck and bracing his palm against his chest, until Isak is engulfed in his embrace and fucking into his hand, his hips snapping back and forth with what little leverage he has against Even’s body. Every time he presses back, he can feel the length of Even's dick against his ass and it makes all the nerves in his body tingle, lit up and on fire.

Even teases him; of course he does, and Isak doesn’t expect anything less, despite how impatient it makes him to be toyed with, the pressure of his hand slowing and becoming measured, the  trail of biting kisses down the column of his throat, until he locates that sensitive spot on Isak’s neck. He always finds it. 

“Even,” he moans and then promptly bites his lip to keep another sound from emitting. But Even’s not having any of it, his other hand coming up to pry his lips apart again, until Isak is sucking loosely on the tips of his fingers. A single drop of sweat running down the side of his face; not for long, when he feels the wet heat of Even’s tongue licking it up. God, how that threatens to send him right over the edge.

He finds his will suddenly, pushing back against Even’s chest with his flat palm until they become detached. He's met with wide eyed surprise when he sits up.

“Isak,” Even says, cheeks flushed, mouth fucking sinister with how red it is, how wet his lips are - “Are you okay - “

“Please fuck me,” he just about demands, and he’s taken aback by how wrecked his voice sounds, how it swells in the middle of his sentence, just like a plea. “I mean, would you like to - you  _know_  what I mean, fuck - will you just -  ?”

“I - “ whatever Even might have thought, it clearly wasn’t this. And yet - it feels - Isak can’t even articulate of  _what_  it feels like, except right. It’s right and he wants it, and he’s finally brave enough to ask for it again. Just imagining Even pressing inside of him sends a thrill curling up his spine in anticipation. "Uh - "

"Don't you want to?" Isak switches tactic then. "I want to. But, if you don't - ?"

"I do," He nods. "But - "

"But?" 

"Just - are you sure?"

“I’m sure - “ he doesn't remove his hand from Even's chest, like they're only able to have this conversation without Isak falling over him embarrassment is if they stay connected like this. “Well - "

"Here the thing," Even twists his lips like he does, when he's considering something a little sad, but his gaze is unwavering. "We can stop at any time if you're not enjoying it."

"Okay," Isak just presses down on his chest until he relents and lies flat on the bed. He rolls over him, covering Even's body with his and kissing the side of his face, his jaw, and his cheek bone. "Yes, I understand."

"Okay, but I mean - " Even hesitates again, kind of kissing Isak back but still really trying to speak to him, so Isak pulls back and looks at him. "I mean, if you start to disassociate. We shouldn't - then I want to stop."

It all stills in with how serious that sentence is. Isak nods.

He remembers in moments like this, how visible he is to Even. How Even finds ways to read between his lines and see Isak. Now it's magnified tenfold with the journal between them. So this is what it feels like to be truly naked. He swallows. 

Suddenly he understands what Even wants to be acknowledged. Neither of them can hide it from each other. He'll see it in Isak right away, if he thinks they're not there together. And Isak will have no ability to pretend otherwise. Imagining it is uncomfortable enough. He nods. Reaches his hand and crosses it over his heart. 

He looms above Even with his legs folded on either side of his hips, easy enough for him to reach out to brush some hair out of Even's face, and run his finger from his temple down along to his mouth. He looks at his lips and bends down to kiss him. He loves kissing Even. How his mouth parts around his bottom lip. How their tongues move together.

When he pulls back he says, "I'm right here."

Even leans up a little to kiss him again, hand at the nape of his neck. Their foreheads touch. "I don't want you to be far away."

"Ask me to come back," he murmurs. "You always do."

"But - "

"If I can't, then we stop," he decides. "I'm starting to get embarrassed it's been this long and I'm  _still_  having to beg. So unfair, Even."

Even laughs, but it sounds like a little afterthought. His gaze turns warm and heavy again, fingers pressing along the top of Isak's cheek. Like he's comprising a thought so loving Isak can almost feel the radiations of it from here.

Isak knows him. He knows that they're going to have sex now, from the way Even's looking at him, so he bends down to kiss him again, sloppily and without finesse. Somewhere in the universe, they’re still teenagers who can hardly contain the desire inside of them. Even was his first. Isak knows him. Isak's body knows his body. 

“I’m sure,” he believes it when he says it, but when Even doesn’t move, he doubles down. “Please.”

He must hear it in his voice. “Okay. Where is - “

Isak nearly rips the bottom drawer out of his bedside table, finding a bottle of lube he bought ages ago and never ended up bringing with him to Oslo. He throws it at Even, who takes it and sets it on the bed, sitting up further and forcing Isak to back up a little on his legs. Even's just looking at his face, and abruptly Isak is aware of his sweaty, matted bedhead, and his sleep crusted lashes. He tilts his head back, gaze imploring, until Even smiles, endeared, and both hands come up to frame either side of Isak’s face. 

Their kissing turns feverish, mouths devoted and possessive of each other. Isak forgets what he was so afraid of. All he can bear thinking of is Even’s tongue and his smell and his hands, how large they feel on his cheeks, how grounded he is here, how the moment could stretch on for an infinite number of minutes and it would never feel like enough time. Always one more minute. Always more one minute after that.

“I’m so fucking in love with you,” Even groans into his mouth, and his heart nearly explodes in his chest. He's incapable of speaking, instead nodding his profound agreement - his mind a spinning mantra of he loves me, he loves me, and I love him, I  _love_ him -

Isak remembers the last time they had sex like this: January, in a dark white wasteland of Oslo. He was in a position similar to the one they’re in now, and he remembers how high he felt, exhausted and devastated but on _fire._  Burning with Even’s admission, with the knowledge he loved him. Still. What Isak felt wasn't just guided by a miserable ill-fated hope. It was real. And it felt like a beginning. The truth of it is, Isak doesn’t think it ever actually ended.

Now, their bodies tanned and damp in a relentless stream of summer, Even lays Isak onto his back and surveys his body with a scrutiny that should make Isak nervous, and yet doesn’t. For whatever reason, it doesn’t occur to him to feel self-conscious when Even gets like this. He kisses his neck again, just a pucker of lips at first. Then it turns to a nibbling against the mark he left earlier, no doubt a blooming pink bruise now, and it brings a little whimper of him, and he knows Even hears it, because the energy in the room shifts between them, and Even’s coming up to run a hand through his hair, weaving it through the ends and pulling his head back a little so he can’t see where his mouth goes next.

The gentle tug feels nice, and Isak slips his eyes closed - what need is there to see, when Isak can feel his mouth on his chest? Kisses brushing over his nipple, until it pebbles, hard under the gentle roll of his tongue, and then again down to his belly button; sheets rustling as he slinks lower. Even’s hand disappears from his head altogether.

Isak mindlessly grips at the head of his dick, pressing his fingers against the tip, and feeling another surge of desire wave through him like a blast of air. He looks down: Even’s encouraging him to touch himself, guiding Isak's hand with his own and sucking on his balls. Looks up at him whilst making Isak’s toes curl when his tongue flattens against the base of his cock.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, he’s missed this, and he can’t  _wait_ , his hips heaving up from the bed, and there’s a single bead of pre-cum dripping down over his fingers, and Even’s mouth feels like heaven on him, a drastic kind of heaven, and when he breaks for air, his mouth is all fucked up, his chin dribbled with spit, and he wipes it with the back of his hand, smiling as he does, in that devilish-I-know-I’m-dirty way, and Isak can’t help but laugh in a burst of heightened nerves, because fuck, they're _back_ , and they're doing this  -

Even runs his hands up his thighs and spreading his legs around him, finding the lube in the sheets and opening it. Isak watches him, looking at his fingers, how long and elegant they are, and now they're going to be inside of him, and he wiggles down closer, spreading his legs further around Even and strokes himself again. 

They both exhale when Even's finger breaches him, and he expects it to burn a little  already. But in a way it's okay. He doesn't mind it. In fact it feels a little like waking up for the first time, remembering where his body is, remembering this is  _his_ , and that thought sends an unexpected wave of heat through him, and he starts to bare down in response. He arches his lower back a little more, until Even pushes one of his knees up too and really spreads him out. By the time he's is three fingers deep inside of him and curled just so against his prostate, Isak can only rock against him, urging him to continue, to keep at it, to send Isak into to place where nothing matters enough to intrude on them now. They're the only two left.

The hint of a building orgasm dangles in from of him, and the tension is so sweet and dense, like a ebbing wave of pleasure, teasing him, causing him to grow agitated with how intensely it's all starting to feel. How he’s been reduced to a wanton puddle, and at this rate he’ll come before they even reach the main event, if Even doesn’t act soon.

Isak stops touching himself, instead reaching for Even's wrist. But he only links their fingers together with his other hand, pressing into Isak to ensure he’s _really_  ready. Until he's on the edge of some kind of precipice, milking every single little bitten off moan, and it makes Isak hot all over, which makes him grow impatient, nudging his knee into the side of his chest.

“Come on,” he huffs, and tries to clear his throat to prevent it from being so raw. He knocks into Even’s side again and wishes he could just roll over onto his knees, back bowed and arse in the air, but Even holds him there with an hand braced across his hip.

“Even - “

“Like this,” Even goes back to their position from before. He rolls him onto his side, half hovering over Isak, before lying down next to him and pulling him flush against him, wet fingers on Isak’s hip as he tilts his bum just so. “I want to be close. I want to see your face, I want to see you - “ 

It’s the first time Isak hears how fucking wrecked Even sounds too, voice all hoarse and fucked up, and he leans fully against him, arms coming up over his head and looping back around Even’s neck, pulling him down for a kiss, and his lips are so familiar and sweet, tasting like their skin, like a poem Isak knows read before, like light, and salt, and snow -

When Even slides in, he does so in careful, guided increments. Each time Isak gasps up into his mouth, feeling every inch until he nearly bottoms out. Even just breathes through it, and it's a moment before either of them move at all; their kisses are little more than slack, open mouths and the wet drag of their tongues together. Slow like honey dripping off a spoon as wide as the horizon, the way his mouth hovers just over Isak’s, and the way his knee comes up between Isak’s legs and plants itself against the mattress for leverage. The way Isak's body adjusts to having him inside, arching and blooming, like a fucking flower. He starts to move, guiding Isak's hand back to his own dick so he can really roll his hips into it, and then he does, and the resulting feeling is so expansive, and this is it, this is the feeling Isak knows; this fucking light, this fucking transcendence -

“That feels so fucking good,” he gasps when Even shifts and thrusts deeper, angling his dick just so, revelling in the sweet drag across his insides, and Isak presses back against him, never mind the burn, and how tight he is, because he knows his body can take it, and because he wants it, he wants it more than anything.

The pace starts out slow, because Even is nothing if not attentive. But soon enough he starts to lose his measured self-control, mouth kissing the side of Isak’s face and hips snapping at a speed that Isak can only fuck back against in a push-pull rhythm. It turns sloppy and desperate, their sweaty skin slipping together, fingers scrabbling in the sheets, and just as Isak thinks he’s finally unravelled the last ribbon of his sanity, Even reaches around and replaces his own hand around him, brutally brushing  against his prostate and touching his dick at the same time, and Isak can’t think of anything else, he really can’t, he really -

“I’m - " he starts and then forgets the next word, because another wave of pleasure washes over him, submerging him deep in a sea of stars, where everything is white and hazy and he forgets they’re on a bed and he forgets how unbearably hot it is and he forgets everything - everything except Even, all around him, holding him so close, unwilling to let him go -

“Even,” he warns him, voice halting on the last letter of his name, “ _Even_ -”

And Even’s panting, a steady stream of yes, yes, yes, there you go, come on, baby, come for me -

He does as he’s told; it’s just too easy. His vision halts in a hazy wave of grey and white, like pressing a magnet to an old television and watching all the pixels scatter; he’s coming so hard the orgasm feels ripped from him, striping Even’s hand and his stomach and mixing with their wet skin. It’s just white noise and panting, body shaking, so much so that he nearly misses the stuttering of Even’s hips, the deep, guttural grunt of his release as he presses deeply into Isak one final time and then he freezes. He always clutches onto him the tightest when he's about to come, and Isak can feel it, the wet hot heat of him, filling him up.

Even waits a beat before he’s pulling out of Isak, and turns him over. They look up at each, and Isak feels like a limp doll, and he’s blinking against the sweat in his eyes, and Even is kissing him, pushing back the hair on his forehead, kissing him again and again until Isak begins to kiss him back.

It’s another moment before he realises Even is whispering something, so quiet he nearly misses it. “Isak,” he’s murmuring. “Love you.”

“Love you,” he returns with a swallow, nudging his nose closer to Even’s until their faces are pressed together on the same pillow.

“Isak, are you okay? You’re trembling,” he sounds worried, and Isak wants to tell him - it’s okay, it really is, he’s more alive than he’s felt in months, and he feels so adored, and heady and sated in this adoration, flush with this intense hope rushing to his heart in an avalanche of unfettered light, how he wants to curl up in Even’s embrace and never leave it. How he wishes he stay on this bed and bask in their glow forever.

“I just missed this so much,” Isak makes out shakily, heaving a deep sigh, his thighs still twitching with aftershocks. His eyes slip closed for a moment. “I just missed you so much.”

A languid smile appears across Even’s face; Isak feels rather than sees the corners of his lips curl up. “Oh, you have no idea. No idea, how much I missed you, too.”

Isak only huffs out a broken laugh, and doesn’t dispute it. But secretly, he thinks he does have an idea. He really, really does.

 

- 

[ONSDAG 11:45](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9PvIIn6cc1M)

 

It’s barely approaching noon, and the heat is already downright oppressive, beating down on the back of their necks, and sparse clouds break up an endless sea of blue for as far as he can see. The air reeks of brine emanating from the water as they walk alongside the Spree.  Across the river sits the Bode Museum, with it’s stately spherical roof, situated on museum island between the Berliner Cathedral and the National Gallery. It’s startling picturesque compared to Neukölln, and all together it gives the impression they could be in an entirely different city all together. 

To Isak’s immediate right is Monbijou park, outfitted by cyclists cutting through, people playing sports in the grass and children running and screaming in short bursts of joy. Long rows of deck chairs line the parameters of the park where, if one so pleases, may sit and enjoy as the city as it passed them by. During the summer there's a [dance floor](https://www.berlinstadtservice.de/images/Amphitheater_Berlin_Tanzkurs.bss.jpg) at the very edge across from the museum, where people can take lessons in the evenings. It's always crowded with regulars and first-timers a like. Sometimes when the breeze is sweeter and softer by the turn of night, he imagines the [mixed sounds](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EiO6gw0vuCA) of music and laughter and the  _rap-tap-tap_  of feet against wood floors would provide an indispensable sense of tranquillity. One where there is no exact quietude, but rather the hints towards a promise of endless summer looming. At least for another dance.

Isak rarely spends any time here, except for when he makes the bi-weekly trip to see Sabine, and Martin only when he’s required to attend class. Despite their shared dislike of the amount of tourists and high end shopping, Mitte remains a familiar comfort, one which reminds him of Oslo; a little cleaner, a little wealthier, a little less graffiti. Even’s fingers loosely linked with his as they pass through the bustling nucleus of Hackescher Markt.

“Wait,” Isak says, pausing when they’re about to turn a corner near Sophienstraße, in the middle of a swell of pedestrian traffic. He was here just two days ago and Everything felt like it just seconds from falling apart. But it also felt longer than two ago too. How arbitrary and fallible time is.

“What?”

Isak gestures with a jut of his chin to the alleyway just after Hackeschen Höfe. “Just, come on. I wanna show you something.”

Even nods, and follows Isak. It’s immediately clear it’s special, just by the rows and rows of string lights, the brick on either side covered in art and graffiti from the ground up to the sky. Multi-coloured paper garlands strung back and forth between the narrow alley create a false roof of light and colour above them.

Immediately Even starts to process what he's looking at. It's little overstimulating, how much there is devour. Some of the pieces are speak volumes: lamenting the use of  technology in favour of authentic experiences, another protesting the consumerism of art culture. Some are more curious: a large elephant, a faceless mouth smiling.

All of it blends together like a secret garden. Even falls quiet, moving incrementally down the pavement, and Isak knows he’s just try to take it all in, to feel whatever is inside of him, provoked by such images, and Isak - he just keeps close behind him and ignores everyone else. Somehow everything appears new again when Isak is attempting to see it through Even's eyes.

Finally they arrive [upon her](https://www.annefrank.de/fileadmin/Redaktion/Service/Bilder/14_Aussenansicht_Treppenaufgang_AFZ.JPG), at the very end. Even stops, and Isak stops and together they stand with their heads tilted in an identical fashion. The Anne Frank Zentrum isn’t a place Isak’s visited for a long time.

The last time he was here was nearly two year ago, when he, on a whim, tried to make use of a museum pass Even’s parents bought them. It was going to expire anyway, and besides, maybe he didn't need Even to understand art anyway. He lasted twenty minutes, and let the card expire after. 

“She’s smiling,” Even murmurs. “She looks happy.”

“I like to think she was, at least sometimes,” Isak suggests. “I - remember when we sat in Frogner Park, and watched the sunrise together?”

“Of course I do.”

“Yeah,” he says, “Well, she reminds me of what you said. About Ruth Maier, and how terrifying life can be sometimes. And even before that, when we were in your studio. Arguing about love and pain, and how they go around, like - “

“Like a flat circle,” Even adds, “A continuum. Not one without the other.”

“Yes. Both.”

They stand there for another moment, Even’s eyes moving as if trying to memorise each individual brick. Then he nudges Isak's shoulder, their elbows knocking together, and Isak looks up just in time to catch the smile on his face, before it slips away again.

“You know, I don’t think anyone quite understands me like you do,” he says. Isak wishes he could wade in that sentiment forever. How powerful and intoxicating this confirmation is, to know he makes Even feel this way. 

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” he nods seriously. “I mean, you don’t - you don't - ” he tries, and then shakes his head at whatever internal thought is running through his head. “You never flinch.”

Isak knows what he means. He’s spent years mulling over the exact ways Even operates. He doesn't always get it right; he's not supposed to always get it right. That's how Even works. Bright yellow, deep blue, and all the gradients in between. His brain weaves together a world both simple and complex; romantic beyond Isak’s wildest beliefs, and all the more devastating because of it.

It's in the intricate balance Even wishes came naturally to him, which is always misled by the deviating flushes of mania or depression. Those moods which remind him that hard-won peace only lasts in the briefest of moments anyway. It's knowing his brain works through a thousand different ideas and possibilities, all while being meddled with medication that causes him a foggy, bone-deep tiredness among a litany of other side effects. It's in his ability to figure out how to deal with what life throws at him - way before Isak ever considers it - things like therapy and exercise and meditation and speaking up when he's upset. It's in his energy, his devotion to rising again and again; against the tides of what threatens to overcome him. Against all fears and odds. How proud Isak is to witness someone become the person they were meant to be.

Being with Even is nothing short of being consumed by the life he wants for himself, including being with Isak. It’s the overwhelming nature of Even’s feelings, towards everything, including his art, or his family, or his friends, himself - that one mustn't, even for a moment, even in the deepest throws of anguish, forget that life is beautiful. And this beauty is a gift, and it is warning, and it is a price they pay for one way or another.

One moment you're here, and then you're not. Even's told him this countless times when they were younger. But now he says something else: be grateful for those golden hours. There will always be the darker ones. Isak understand what he has to do. Still he must go out into the day; still he must feel things. It's okay to love life. And it's okay to be scared of it too. 

Isak thinks about how he would even begin to explain any of this. He thinks maybe he'll write it down instead and give it to him instead.

He intertwines their fingers again and says, “Well, neither do you.”

Judging by his smile, how it curls from one ear to the other, his teeth so white and straight and sharp, it’s the right thing to say.

Isak gestures to the staircase leading up to the small museum above. “Would you like to go in?”

Even considers it. Checks the time on his phone. “No, it’s okay,” he decides with a shake of his head. “I think this is enough. Let’s go get a coffee.”

“Sounds good,” Isak nods, and then turns to a gaggle of girls standing next to him. He taps one of them on the shoulder, her dress canary yellow and blue eyes wide, smiling hesitantly. He says in English, “Sorry to bother you, would you be able to take a photo of us?”

“Of course!” she says, her crisp accent hinting at a Scandinavian origin, a cigarette caught between her fingers. She takes his phone from his outstretched hand and steps back. Even just grins at him, pulling Isak closer still until their bodies nearly overlap. They turn to stand just off to the side of Anne so as not to obscure her, underneath a balcony of little yellow lights and pink paper flowers.

“Here you go,” she hands it back to him, eyes darting between them and a smile. “If you don’t like it, I can take another.”

He swipes through them. “No, no, these are good, thank you.”

Even’s mouth near his ear. “Can I see?”

He hands him the phone, and when he looks through the photos, his eyes fold into happy little half-moons from the force of his smile. Even hands it back and leans over, kissing the side of Isak’s face. “They’re pretty good. Will you send them to me?”

“Of course.”

On the way out, Even doesn’t let go of his hand, leading them with a smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth, like he’s actively trying to repress the urge to grin like an idiot. Isak only knows he's doing it because he’s trying to do the same thing.

The place Even brings him is hardly surprisingly. Tucked in a corner just a couple streets down is [the Barn](https://thebarn.de/), which, according to Even, is hands down the most reputable micro-roaster in Berlin. Tiny wooden tables and stools line the outside wall-to-wall windows, where customers peruse the imported  _New York Times_ and sip ice lattes out of thick glass tumblers, their conversations an amalgamation of different languages.

Inside, the baristas remind Isak of some of Even’s co-workers at Tim Wendelboe, sporting haircuts which are undoubtedly stylish; their formal leather aprons somehow both irritating and intimidating. Even studies the origin list and surprises Isak by conversing with the barista their recommendations in impressively competent German.

Isak just stares at him with his mouth comically agape.

“What - since when?” he splutters in the corner as they wait. "Since when, Even?"

“Don't look at me like that - what, you expected me to come here without  _any_ clue as to speak the native language?” Even teases him, and then he looks a little abashed. “I may have - I d _id_  get a bit too excited before I came, and let’s just - you know, sleep gets a little sparse. I think I did like like thirty eight levels on Duolingo. Managed to remember a decent amount of phrases despite it just being an app and some audio tapes.” 

“Of course you did,” Isak narrows his eyes, giggling a little at the absurdity of the situation. Jesus fucking Christ -  _of course_ he fucking did. “Ugh. So all this time, how much have you understood - “

“Oh, not a lot - just - bits, and pieces,” his eyes twinkling now. “You are the easiest to understand, you speak slower. Martin is difficult, he talks so fast, and I think more so, because of his -

“- French, yeah, it’s confusing for everyone,” he shakes his head. “Ugh. I see how it is. Are you ever going to quit being so impressive?”

“What - impressive?” Even grins and waggles his eyebrows, clearly enjoying himself. His name is called and he goes to collect their drinks: a cold brew for Isak, and a cortado - never mind how fucking hot it is - for Even. Some habits never die. “Hypo-manic vocab sprees are hardly impressive.”

“Ugh. Well, shit, were you okay? You didn’t tell me - “

“No, no, I was fine. Just excited and a little - “ Even rocks his palm back and forth and shrugs. “I didn't tell you because it wasn’t that bad. Mostly I was just really happy. Spent it in the studio, painting for nearly two days straight, listening to these German audio books. And then when I realised I had to - sort myself out, I went over to mamma’s house and slept for a couple of days. Saw Susannah and tried to take it completely chill before I came.”

“Okay,” it’s complicated, sometimes, for Isak to understand the true nature of being bipolar. Of course he can’t, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting to know.

Sometimes it’s agony and sometimes it’s fine and sometimes Even hates it and other times he accepts that it’s who he is; Isak understands all these feelings individually, but that’s often not how they appear, instead intertwined in a constellation of intersections, where everything bleeds together in an excitable misery that permeates Even’s world view. It's confusing. Isak had told Even this once, and Even said, well, it's confusing for me too. It just so happens that it's inside my brain.

“But you - everything’s okay?” 

“I’m okay, Isak,” Even rolls his eyes a little. “Don't start feeling guilty. It’s not as related as you’re thinking - despite what certain friends of mine say. But you know, I _know_ you know, I think it’s total bullshit.”

“I wasn’t thinking about them,” Isak wasn’t before, but inevitably what Hemi said to Even does in fact irk him again. “I know. I just think it’s quite smug to hide your newfound abilities from me this entire week.”

“Well, when I was working, I _did_ use a little to get food sometimes. But you're much better than I, so why bother, when it was entirely worth it to hold out? God, I wish you could have seen your expression. You really didn’t expect it, did you?” Even eggs him on.

“Oh, well if was so worth it, then  _of course_ ,” Isak glares at him. “So typical. I took German all through school and it still took me ages to really -  _get_  into it. You had like, weeks. Less than. It’s borderline annoying.”

“Oh, just borderline, huh?” Even teases. He gestures to his coffee. “Try it, tell me what you think.”

Isak does, and to the surprise of no one, finds it tastes delicious. “It’s nice.”

“It’s Mbokam AB, from a farm in Kenya,” Even informs him, “It’s just near a little creek, apparently, and that creates an unusual taste profile - like marmalade and cranberry - “

“I don’t taste any berries, Even,” he just shakes his head. “I just taste coffee.”

“Someday, I’ll teach you how to test the notes,” Even is undeterred. “It’s all about leaving your mouth open, and oxidising the coffee as it surpasses different places on your tongue.”

“Sounds great,” Isak says flatly, raising an eyebrow. “I’ll be sure to bring my notebook, in case I need to write anything down.”

“Oh, of course, you’ll need to,” he returns just as dryly. For a little while they drift into a peaceful quiet. Isak observes the patrons nearby, Even is pleasantly bemused by the multitude of small brown Finches dotting the sidewalk in front of them, no doubt waiting for a fallen pieces of banana loaf and coffee cake. A couple of times they even hop on top of their shared table to investigate for any leftover crumbs, tilting their tiny heads to peer up at them.

“So,” Even breaks the silence, looking down as he rolls a cigarette. A moment later, he passes it to Isak and starts the process over again. “I read the card your sister sent you. Do you think - you think you’d reach out to her, anyway?”

“Oh, that,” Isak sighs and lights his smoke. “Yeah, I don’t know. I mean, I’m not sure yet. I didn’t expect it at all. Actually it’s like a huge...fucking shock still.”

“Yeah, I can only imagine,” he says. “I didn’t...for some reason, I didn’t consider she would still be here in Berlin.” 

“I did,” Isak admits openly. That first year he was alone here, he thought about contacting Lea. He went as far to check with his father to see if she was in Berlin. His old Norwegian iphone remained locked in the bottom of his desk drawer once he got a German one, and he never moved her number over. “In fact, I knew she was still here.”

The last time Isak really spoke to Lea was when he was still a second year at Nissen. He’d left during the summer before his second year. His mother hadn’t been doing well. That year it was the worst by far, when she was in their family house all alone and his father wasn’t there and Isak couldn’t sleep and he couldn’t go home anymore and no one was speaking to each other. Isak was so angry at his mother, as if it was her fault their family fell apart. He remembers how resentful he was towards his Lea too for leaving These feelings were like black wet tar, how it ruined his insides, how unholy it felt. How sinful, in the end, for him to abandon her the way she did. Thou shalt honour thy mother and father. 

Lea called and told him to grow up and go home and get her some help. She said she’d wrangle with dad. This is what you have to do, she told him angrily. This is your own mother. Like he didn’t know. He’d hung up on her.

After that it wasn’t the same. For months he ignored her calls until she quit calling him. But it didn't have to be final. Now he recognises the possibility how easily it could have been different. There were so many times he should have reached out to her. Maybe she would've understood why he left if he talked to her about it. What if he told her about the lock his mother installed on the outside of his door? Or when dad moved out, and there were some days when he felt truly out of his depth with how scary it was becoming? Or even after, when he moved out. Why didn't he tell her when he graduated? Or when he moved to Berlin? Or when his mother died? It’s been years. He never tried to find out. He chose silence instead.

Even just looks at him. Isak sighs. “We haven’t talked in a long time. Things never...I was still really angry, with Lea.”

“Yeah,” he nods. Trying to understand.

“But I was also under the impression - an assumption, actually, that my father would have told Lea about my mother. But he didn’t,” he looks down at the birds again, as they bounce up and around, just centimetres from where their feet nearly meet. Isak’s legs are tanned, the hair on his calves stained blonder by the sun. His legs are crossed at the ankle, toes nearly meeting where Even’s are between the chairs. Distantly remembers when he thought it was too gay to cross his ankles. These kinds of memories have a distinct aftertaste. Something bitter between the teeth.

“Obviously you read the card, so you know she didn’t know. Well, I guess, that was my bad. I should have told her.”

“Yeah. But she’s right. I mean - the fact that your father  _didn’t_  say anything is low. It’s as if - ” but Even can’t finish that sentence, instead abruptly breaking off and biting the inside of his cheek. He flicks his cigarette.

 _As if she didn’t matter_. Isak knows what Even is thinking, because he’s thinking the exact same thing. They spend another moment suspended in a sad sort of silence.

“That’s true, too,” he swallows. “Regardless of what my father didn’t do, I wish I had been the one to reach out to her anyway. If she had been there, this January…”

He’s already considered it. If his sister had been there, with him in Oslo, he wouldn’t have been alone. There’d would have been a proper ceremony. He’d gone to dinner and toasted her and cried in front of someone else besides Even. His thoughts always spiral to this point, and then they stop. Because if his sister was there with him, he’s doubtful he’d be sitting here across from Even right now. 

“It’s okay, Isak,” Even’s voice is very gentle.

“Yeah, I know. Things happen the way they happen,” he agrees a little flippantly. Shrugs and bobs his head, in an attempt to soften the fragile mood. “Maybe now things will be - who knows -”

“Better?”

“At least different,” he amends. “Maybe I'll think about texting first.”

“A smart plan,” Even’s mouth twists into a thoughtful shape. “...she said she’d be there when you’re ready. So you can take your time, and always choose not to respond until you feel like it.”

“Yeah,” he nods, swallowing a little and considering the prospect. It makes his stomach twist unpleasantly with nerves. You know, Lea is a movie freak too. She was the first person to make me sit and watch whatever she wanted.”

“She paved the way, I see,” he smiles and it reaches his eyes and he gives this goofy look as he sips his cortado, until Isak breaks eye contact first. He laughs a little, he can’t help it. Now Even’s doing it on purpose, and it slices up the tension between them, the same tension sitting right in chest again, pulling all the tendons in his heart apart, and making it hard to swallow.

Well, thank God for it, he thinks. With thoughts such as these, sometimes only laughter will relieve you.

“Yes, she did,” he says, “And, also, she always let me pick a movie, unlike some people - “ he looks pointedly at him with his eyebrows raised. Even only puts his hands up in mock defence. “I think we watched My Neighbour Totoro like fifty times when I was a kid. And every time, she never said anything, she just liked that we had something we could share.” 

“So that’s why it’s a Totoro card,” Even smiles with a relieved air about him. Isak understands that, understands how for once, it’s nice to hear something out of Isak’s mouth about his family that isn’t so fucking morbid. “She remembered.” 

Indeed she did.

The rest of the afternoon, Isak refuses point blank to separate for any more time than they had to. Even only encourages it by pulling Isak down alleyways so they can pause to make out on the cobblestone pavement. When their hands became too sweaty to hold, he just slings an arm around Isak’s neck, nosing at his hairline while they wait for the traffic man to turn green again. On foot, with no particular aim or worry, they migrate back east, pausing in Kotbussor Tor to see the Klimt mural and grab lunch.

He wishes the afternoon would never end. Through the rows of flats in West Kreuzberg, they slip into a quiet intimacy Isak has no name for. Weaving through second hand English bookstores, Even thumbing through old poetry books and pointing out random pieces of art he spots hidden between neighbouring streets.

A few streets later it's a few self-important vintage shops, where naturally Even fits right in, easily finding three new patterned shirts that look like they already belong to him. He peeks his head out of the dressing room, inviting Isak in with him, and together they stand in front of the mirror, and stare at each other. They look so much older, and yet, somehow, still kind of the same. The rosy flush of their cheeks, the bright new bruise on Isak's neck, Even's considering gaze over his shoulder. Some things don't fade over time.

"Help me choose which one," Even asks him. Isak points out plainest one; it's the colour of clamshells. When Even laughs, surprised, he just shrugs in response and says, a little snarky, well you asked me, that's the one you should get. He's still grinning when he takes it the counter, but Isak's hardly bothered by it. He’s always had a thing for Even in pink.

 

-

 

ONSDAG 19:22

 

Eventually neither of them could deny it. The day dwindles in a slow drip, but even so, night encroaches, and so does Even's flight.  

After spending a little time loitering after dinner, Isak secretly wishing he could order another beer and just bask in this burnout August night, it becomes obvious it's time to go. Together, Even’s hand in his back pocket, they wander alongside the Neukölln canal, a knot of dread twisting in Isak’s stomach, like he’s eaten something funny.

Martin is thankfully gone. Isak doesn’t think he handle witnessing another round of goodbyes. Even laments this when he realises. “I didn’t get to ask him about the quartet on the wall. I kept meaning to….”

He walks over to them and stands in front of them, along with the mirror. In the reflection he can see how his and Even’s hips are misaligned, and yet their knees almost meet perfectly at the same point. Even’s still as thin and lithe as he was when Isak met him, save for his broader shoulders and - though it seems impossible - longer legs. Isak’s not soft around the edges like he once was. In more ways than one.

“Well, I can just tell you what I know, and you will have to text him about the rest, because I can’t explain the process, or what he used, or anything. You can’t ask me any questions, okay?” Isak warns. 

“Okay,” Even nods, eyes like crescent moons on the tops of his cheeks. “Noted. No questions.”

“Okay," Isak licks his lips.  "I know he made them for a final project for one of his classes. And…uh, basically, he was looking for inspiration - he's done work like this before, I've seen it. But he didn’t know what material to use, because... he wanted to talk about -  _obscurity._  Things that are hidden, and then not hidden anymore. I don’t know,” Isak hurries on, growing unsure as to whether or not that's what Martin actually said or if that's his own interpretation. “Anyway, one day, he comes bursting into my room, in that rude way that he does, and demands that I give him any poetry I had on hand.” 

Even laughs. Isak lets out a exasperated chuckle. “Yeah, I know. So anyway...of course, I told him, I didn’t have any poetry in my room, and he called me a fucking liar, because apparently he saw some on my floor the day before - ”

Isak spares Even the details of the hour of circular bitching between them, Isak trying to cover up what Martin found by being annoyed at him for going into his room.

Have you been looking at my shit, Martini, because Lord knows I don't do that in  _your_  room.

Martin was adamant that he didn’t  _look_ at Goddamn anything, he’d _actually_  come in because Isak had the Roomba last, and there was a colossal size mess of beads on his bedroom floor.

Like all of their petty arguments, it simmered once both of them exhausted their efforts, and smoked a joint together. Under the influence of weed, and curious to see Martin’s reaction, Isak went back into his room, and returned with several folders he kept hidden in the back of his closet.

“Well, he was right and we both fucking knew it. I did have some, actually. My mother’s,” he explains. “She wrote a lot of poetry when I was growing up. It kinda stopped when she was fired at the university and started becoming more unwell. Luckily for me - and Martin too, I guess, she kept them all. When she died, I got them. There's a lot. Sometimes there are twenty drafts for one poem, and each draft is only slightly different, but - yeah. So anyway. I gave him - some of them. If he wanted to use any, he could.”

Even hasn’t looked away from them. “Is this why neither of you ever could give me a straight answer about it? I think I asked Martini like four times, and he always changed the topic. I finally figured that maybe it was because it was too private. But it was because - it's yours?" 

“Well,” Isak shrugs, “I don’t know. We disagree on this. To me, they’re his, because he did the work, and made them into something completely new. So I told him he can stay whatever the hell he wants. But to him, they’re also - it's also mine, because they come from me. Well, they come from her. But through me, I guess.”

“I see,” comes his quiet response. Isak sidles up close to him, and points to the bottom right one. “This is my favourite. And I guess - technically, it  _is_  actually mine, because Martini gave it to me once it was graded and returned to him.”

Out of the four them, it contains the most red thread, the entire text effaced save for the last two lines, tucked far in the corner.

Even leans in, squinting to read what it says, whispering it under his breath. Isak reads it along with him in his head. 

_What do Angels know? Besides glory /_

_And bloodshed._  

He watches him, and then adds, “It’s a line from a poem she wrote after she had already moved to Fagerborg.”

He’s not sure why he finds this titbit so significant. Maybe because the idea of his mother writing poetry again once she lived there offers him a small token of peace.

“It's incredible,” Even mutters, returning to his full height again. When he turns around, his eyes are a little glassy, but he’s smiling with such affection it erases Isak’s hesitancy. “Well, now you can’t deny it. This thing with words you have. It really is inherited." 

Isak just rolls his eyes, pretending he's not affected by a flood of butterflies crawling up his throat. He reasons it’s because he’s been nervous all day - fuck it, he’s been nervous nearly all fucking week - and not at all because Even’s mouth says things that are so damn startling sometimes. 

“I think it’s time,” Isak says. “We should probably head to the train station.”

"You're right," Even nods, heavy, taking one last long consideration at the quartet. All his stuff is packed up and waiting in the entryway of their flat, his backpack organised with his necessities on top: ID, keys, wallet, notebooks, headphones, chargers, and a new addition. Isak’s journal. "I can't begin to say how great it's been, being here with you."

"I could say the same," he responds easily. "And it will be different this time. You can write me, of course. But we can text and call and I'll visit, and you'll visit, and it will be okay."

Even nods, turning around now. Isak picks up his keys. "I know," he says softly, pausing, obviously ruminating over something, turning it again and again in his head. Finally he just says: "Thank you."

"Of course," he returns easily. "I mean it, you're welcome any time, you can come back -"

"No, I mean. More than just that. Thank you for everything," Even is deadly serious now. His lungs constrict as he pauses mid-breath.

"That's okay," Isak finds it difficult even to say this, and it's hardly adequate.

Even nods again, and then the seriousness of the moment dissipates again. He kisses Isak's temple and says, "You're right though. It won't be long before we see each other. And it will be okay. Better than okay actually. In the meantime, I look forward to reading your journal. And writing you back. And I'll call you when I land. I promise."

"You better," Isak swallows, affording himself another deep breath before opening the front door. "Okay, I suppose we should go."

They walk out of the apartment, down a half dozen flight of stairs and into the city again. All the way to the station, where a train is waiting to whisk Even away. 

 

-

 

TORSDAG 00:02

 

"Honey, listen," Martin is waving a cigarette dangerously close to Isak's face, and he flinches back with a frown. "I know you're sad. But let’s try, just for a moment, not to be.”

Isak just looks at him. He imagines his face is as deadpan and glum as he feels. “Ugh.”

Martini relents, ashing his cigarette in the hole in the table usually meant for the umbrella stand. “I get it. I know. What time is it?”

“Just after midnight.”

“Alright, you win. I told you, you had to stay till midnight, and now look, you made it. Don’t say I didn’t try. At least do me the honour of finishing your drink, okay?"

They're sitting outside Kvartira 62, Martin’s favourite Russian bar, a quiet, homey hole in the wall, Isak nursing the same Moscow Mule and grimly chain smoking. Their friends are spread amongst two whole tables, and there are plenty of people he hasn’t seen in weeks that he should really catch up with, at least the sake of not being an asshole. But he can't muster any energy to do so.

He feels deflated now in wake of Even's absence. In fact, all he wants to do is go home and lie face down in his bed in his dirty sheets. They probably smell like their sex from this morning. It sours a taste in his mouth, but he stifles the ache which threatens to follow.

If he were feeling less tender, he would have flat out refused Martin when he wrangled him out for a drink tonight. After Even boarded his train to Tegel, Isak spent an hour or so wandering along the neighbourhood, before finally making his way to the flat again. He was dreading the return: it made it all feel final. Even was really gone. He came home to find Martin making himself a drink, making some fuss that he'd been waiting for Isak all this time and why wasn't he answering his phone?

After he took one look at Isak's face and announced they needed to go out.  There was no other option. Isak tried to protest but frankly the idea of sitting alone in their apartment daunted him too, images of Even leaving on the train cycling through his brain at a effective, and exhaustive speed in his memory. Somehow, even though he knows they're okay, it still felt nearly impossible to watch him go. Neither of them have ever been good with saying goodbye, especially at train stations.

Martin does what he knows best. He liquors Isak up and surrounds them with distractions with the hopes it'll take the edge off. He's not wrong entirely: being with all their mutual friends in this summer evening, voices waving in a buzzing heat is lovely to be a part of.

But it is also like all the other evenings in Berlin before Even came; plenty of booze and smoking and senseless partying to be doing. All in good fun, for four long hot months. Except now it feels sort of baseless and vapid. Isak knows he’s just melancholic but nonetheless, it’s unbearable to sit here a second longer.

He drains his drink in one go, which was half melted ice anyway. "I'm going to go home. Please tell me there's weed in your tin."

"Yes, but I have no idea where it is, so take this," Martin passes him a barely smoked joint, likely from earlier. He adjusts his tiny light blue sunglasses and sending a text message on his phone, before looking up and patting Isak's hand. "Well. Too-da-loo ma cher. Have a nice time."

Isak almost pauses to respond with something sassy, like  _I'll be sure to enjoy my lonely walk home, yes, thanks_. But he doesn't. Martin's already distracted by Michel asking for a lighter, and more importantly, there's no point in making him feel bad. It's not like it's his fault Even's left. 

He walks along the canal towards their apartment, smoking a little of the joint and trying to take it all in again. Last week he walked the exact same route, waiting for Even to finally arrive. Finally he was going to see Berlin and all it holds within. The vibrancy, the beauty, the ugliness - and the pain. In many ways, it wasn't until Even came to Berlin that Isak could really face the truth of this city, what it's done to him. Isak doesn't miss the significance. 

Now he's on the other side of this week, and as he considers the dark streets around in him a wistful numbness. He recognises the sadness spreading within him will eventually become acceptance. It may be a few months yet before they see each other. Even's absence will be a physical ache, but one which will lessen over time. He reminds himself it could be worse. In another universe Isak and Even are still broken up. In another universe they never met at all.

When he arrives home, the first thing he notices is there's a candle lit on the dresser, and internally he's already drafting the bitchy text he's going to send Martin once he puts his stuff down. But when he shuts the door and turns around, he sees there's another candle, this time on the coffee table. A third one sits on his desk, right in the middle of it, and his stomach does a funny little turn. He doesn't remember any of these candles out, let alone lit, when Martin and him left earlier. He passes a forth one on the way to his bedroom, and stops in the doorway.

Even's standing there, amongst more candles, their little flames flickering a deep auburn in the darkness and painting the room gold. He's smiling, head cocked to the side, eyes catching the light. 

"Hi," Isak blurts out, and his voice sounds squeaky with surprise to his own ears. "What are you doing here?"

"I was sitting at the airport, reading your journal again," Even explains, "And there's this song you keep mentioning, how you can hardly remember it anymore, but you used to love it. Even as a child. You've been dreaming about it, haven't you?"

"Oh," Isak swallows. "Yes. I - but - Even, your flight - "

"I mean, I don't start classes again until next week, anyway," Even shrugs. "And I knew that I didn't really need an _entire_ week to prepare. I knew those few extra days spent with you would be far more important to me anyway. Here. And I knew the song. I had to come back and tell you I figured it out. I knew what song you can't remember."

He tries to process all this. Even leaving the airport, planning this as he went. Who'd he call? How'd he get in? Martin, of course. And how'd manage to do all of it - well, Isak was out for a drink until midnight, wasn't he? It all makes sense. God he doesn't know whether to throttle Martin or kiss him. He chuckles a little wetly, cheeks warm to touch, and he's walking towards Even now, heart beating rapidly in his chest as he stares at him, at his smile, and the deep dark blue of his eyes contrasted in this soft orange glow. 

"You do?" Isak swallows, breathing in. 

"I do," Even nods. He goes over to where his phone is already plugged in to Isak's aux cord, and [he presses play](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iPqv_N2mOGE). Isak just stands in the middle of his room with his arms at his sides, in an inarticulate mess of surprise and wonder as a familiar strum of a guitar blankets the room in sound. It's like a tension has been pulled from between his shoulders and when Even stands next to him again with his hand out, Isak already knows what will come out of his mouth next.

"Dance with me?" he raises any eyebrow. He points out the window, and Isak watches his hand as he does so. "Look. It's a full moon."

Isak looks out into the sky, window still wide open from this morning. Even's right. The moon is a round, unforgiving white orb of light bearing down on them, glowing like an unsung God. He takes Even's hand in his, stepping closer and allowing himself to be gently pulled in to the circle of his embrace. They sway together as the singer croons, and Isak sings a long in his head a little, remembering more the longer it plays on. Even's mouth is a constant near his forehead where Isak's leaning against him, and he closes his eyes when the harmonica starts, a million different memories flashing through his brain. A beautiful swell at the realisation that some sounds have lived inside you for so long they feel like coming home again. Even knows this feeling too. Even knows him.

"Thank you," he murmurs. Feels Even readjust his arm against his back as they turn around in a small circle. 

"For what?" comes the gentle murmur of Even's voice in his ear. It's teasing and familiar, and he can picture in his mind's eye the little smile on his mouth. 

"For being who you are," he answers easily. In the contrast of light and darkness like this, half suspended in a white-washed moonlight and their moody red shadows on the wall, Isak feels drowsy in this rush of love. Truth readies itself and is no longer afraid to leave the tongue. He speaks directly from his heart to Even's; there is nothing else between them.

"Ah," Even hums simply, "Well. Thank you too."

"For what?"

"For telling me you loved me, back in January. It was so brave. And now look at us. Looks like we made it, doesn't it?"

The music simmers sweetly, and now as he makes out some of the lyrics, the name comes back to him. Harvest Moon. God, he remembers. His mother loved this song, and she'd sing it directly into Isak's ears late at night when he couldn't sleep, like a lullaby. He feels so ago, he thought maybe she made it up. But it's real. It's a real song. A wetness wells behind his eyes, because he recognises now, how much it reminds him of home. A home with good memories too. He remember how his mother used to dance with him, and she seemed so big and grown up, and her love spread throughout the entire world for Isak. When you're four and the world is so big and you are so small, and your mother pulls you up in her arms, and she's laughing, and she's kissing you, and she's singing along, spinning him faster and faster - 

He presses his nose against Even's, their precursor to a kiss. Nevermind that every kiss is just a ticking clock: begging for just one more minute. And this minute and this minute and this minute too. Nevermind that time will eventually force them to part. Nevermind how it may hurt. Nevermind how it fills Isak with a longing which no distraction will suffice in it's place. Nevermind that Even will have to leave in a few days again. Nevermind there's a whole new set of goodbyes impending. Nevermind the distance. Nevermind that yearning, quiet ache. Nevermind the grief. Never mind the past, and who they used to be. Nevermind how far they've come. Nevermind the future, or how far they have to go. Not yet.

All he has is now. And now -

Here you are, standing with the most important person in your life, he reminds himself. Nowhere else, but here with him.

Isak kisses him. 

  
-

 

 


	6. The Journal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few months into writing H.Moon I got an idea. That idea was born out of a long walk in October, stoned and lost in my music. I started writing something I never would have predicted. 
> 
> These journal entries take place over six months from January to June. In this verse, that means from the time Isak left Even in Oslo at the end of COLSS, until until a week or two before he arrives in LOMIS in June. This is my first 1st POV in a long, long time. 
> 
> There are references throughout to religious conflict and imagery, depression, guilt, grief, child neglect, references and allusions to a drugged assault, mental illness, anxiety, therapy - a whole lot of very triggering stuff. Please proceed with caution, and feel free to reach out.
> 
> Also: I wrote these to work with the mind that this chapter is not are not necessary either. Chapter five is the 'the End.' This verse can exist without everything after. These journal entries are sort of like a timeline and provide context but the story can stand without them, so if you don't like this narrative - that's okay. It doesn't take away or greatly altar the original story. & there are no links this time. I will include those at the end of next chapter. I'm sure at this point you can guess what it will be?
> 
> A short playlist for this can be found [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/19KYkwh0LDGUnoqzBBlamH).

 

(19/01)

In the book of Genesis, the Angel of the Lord, Gabriel went to Abraham and told him his wife Rebekah would bear him a son, and he shall name it Isaac. Later, he asked Abraham to sacrifice Isaac as a vow of faith to God. I know this because in her bible she has this entire story copied word for word into her diary. In the book of Luke, Gabriel returns to inform the priest Zechariah that he must have a son in the name of God, and he will be called John the Baptist. I wonder about the appearance of Gabriel. What did it mean to be heavenly. These men always trembled before him.

(20/01)

I keep having the same dream. There's so much snow. You wouldn't believe how much there is. It's everywhere, filling up all the spaces between my fingers as I dig. I'm trying to get to the bottom, even though I don't want to. Actually, I'm quite scared of what I'll find. But I have to know what's underneath all this snow.

When I wake up, there's a song playing in my head. But it doesn't sound right; I can't quite remember the tune. Maybe she made it up. She was good at making things up. It came so natural to her.

This is all I remember:

Come a little bit closer / hear what I have to say....

Cause I'm still in love with you / I wanna see you dance again / Cause I'm still in love...

(21/01)

This is how I remember it. The archangel Gabriel was sent to the town of Nazareth to deliver God’s message. He said to Mary, I am here because the light of God has fallen upon you, and you have been chosen to bear a son. He knew Mary must have been afraid, and he told her there was nothing to fear. A creature such as he knew love and benevolence could be dealt in the same hand. Yet he was a servant just like the rest of us.

We know Mary, who vowed to fulfil God’s wish. Then the Holy son of God was born. We know the rest. We know his death.

(22/01)

It was only weeks ago that we saw each other. It feels like minutes. Seconds since I saw your face last. Before that, it was August from the year before. Remember August? What a strange month. In January they seem like a mythical fabrication not meant for this world. I had just turned nineteen that summer. The same age you were when we got together.

That song is bothering me again. Writhing around like a worm in my head, threatening to drive me mad. Every time I google it a thousand different songs come up, and none of them seem right.

Come a little bit closer / here what I have to say / Come a little bit closer / here what I have to say

I can't remember the rest.

(23/01)

I haven’t touched the postcards yet. Instead I’ve been reading her journals. Not that it’s any easier. All of it will hurt. I can’t explain it now, but I need to read those first. It’s difficult. Because I want to read what you wrote. And I want to know it even though it scares me. I wish to tell you none of what crosses my mind; save except the frequency in which I think about you. But sometimes tenderness is also a poison.

Thinking about you means thinking about our break up again. I hate going back to that place in my brain. It’s like picking at scar tissue. That skin heals back tougher than the rest.

I was telling Sabine this. She suggested I write out what I feel thinking about it. But that’s too much, and I can’t write like that. So when I wake up tomorrow I’m going to write out what happened in the calmest, plainest way possible. Mostly the facts. I'm going to try. I feel like if I spit this out I can leave it behind. Or maybe I can have a place where it all remains between the pages. So if my head starts to do me in again, I can refer back to what really happened and calm myself down. That's the idea, anyway.

(24/01)

Okay. It went like this.

When we dated, you had two major episodes. I’m not talking about those times you swung on a polarised spectrum of highs and lows here and there. I’m not talking about those times where things felt tense and we'd argue or make love depending whichever mood struck you - like a match into a flame, sometimes you'd consume me. Sometimes you'd consume yourself. But I'm not talking about those times. Or the times when you'd twirl into an interregnum stretch of creative hypomania, and land on your feet after, usually with a new project half-way to finish and a Xanax in hand.

I’m talking about code: shit is getting fucking real. I’m talking about full blown ascendance to being unreachable, and a slow crawl out to finding yourself again. The first one was when I didn’t know and didn’t see it coming. But then again, the second one I didn’t see it coming either.

Impending change serves to ramp us both up a couple notches in terms of anxiety. And change was on its way.

It was the spring before I finished Nissen. I was on a one track mind to study as much as I possibly could. Staying up later and later and still waking up early to go to class. You took all those late shifts so I could have peace in the flat, and that meant drinking coffee into the night. All those times we weren’t spending the evening together, until we hardly hung out or fucked or even laughed together at all. Until we were barely talking.

We should have seen it coming, in retrospect. But it took us by surprise. I was in the middle of my exams. You didn’t want me to have to deal with you; so you kept it to yourself until it spiralled out of your control. I almost missed an exam, had your mother not stepped in when she did.

The guilt in the aftermath felt like a third roommate between us. You took it so badly, how you lost yourself. You hated yourself so much, and you hated that you felt this way, but you couldn’t help it. You couldn’t help anything. I remember you were so fucking depressed. I hated it when you were that fucking sad. It felt like we were at the bottom of the ocean, and we were running out of oxygen one, bubble at a time.

Summer started. Results came. I got the points I needed to fulfil my conditional offer at Bard. I thought we’d weathered the worst of it. The sun was out again, and it was starting to get better already. We’d saved up enough money and I was getting a loan for school and I was thinking in a few months we wouldn’t even be there. We could start over.

By July, things became intense. There were days were you so in love with me again, and I rode that wave, thought it would save us, thought it felt like the rush of being with you that very first time. The problem was it never felt like enough anymore.

And then there were days you were so distant. The farther away you were, the more desperate and resentful I turned, until I was unbearable. I cringe now to think how fucking clingy I was, trying to get you to talk with me. Everything about that summer was so different from the summer before it.

We know what happens next. Of course.

Of course then I found the acceptance letter on your computer. I think I lost my mind a little. I started yelling. You started yelling back. We were standing between stacks of boxes being horrible to each other, and I thought my eyes were going to roll into the back of my head, it was getting so ugly. Insults were hurled. Shit was dug up. I said some things I regret very much, and that do no use to me to repeat now. After I said them, you said nothing, and you looked at me, and you left.

You went to stay at your mother’s house. You didn’t have your phone with you, so every day I had to call her to see if you’d speak to me. I asked her to tell you that I was sorry. I asked her if you would come home.

For five days she said more or less the same. Not yet, Isak, dear. He says he’ll tell me when he wants to call. Not to worry.

I couldn’t take it. We were leaving in nearly a week. I went over there. I thought if you saw me you wouldn’t be able to resist. You would realise we had to talk. Enough was enough, and we had to fix it now.

But your mother answered. I asked her if you would come to door. And she said you couldn’t. And I said, let me in to talk to him. And she said that you said no. I told her fine, I was just going to wait, but she said that she didn’t think that’s a good idea right now. She started to cry too, because I was crying. It was humiliating. I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t stand you humiliating me like this. So I left.

I can’t write anymore about it today. I just can’t.

(26/01)

I can continue now. Where was I? Right. Right. That entire week was one long heart attack.

You appeared the night before we were supposed to leave. It wasn’t late enough to be dark yet. I remember how your face looked in the glow of a burnt sunset, our empty white apartment startlingly bright pink.

Your face wore this sad kind of hungry look. And I thought it was because of the fight, how shit it had been, how much you regretted it. I knew I regretted it, I knew I was sorry, and I was at a point where I didn’t care anymore, I just wanted you to come back.

And I want you to know I still thought everything was going as planned - fuck the fight. I thought we'd still pack up our shit and move on with the next step. We could still save it. I already made of list of ways to prove to you we could make it. The first on my list was that we loved each other. I don’t remember the rest. Now I know that was part of the problem.

There you were at the door. I rushed to tell you how sorry I was. And you told me how sorry you were. And you kept telling me how much you loved me. Fuck, I hate this part. You kept telling me how much you loved me, and we started kissing, and then we started making love, and it was so intense, the way you were fucking me, and holding me so close, smothering me and not letting me go for one second.

I was so fucking overwhelmed by everything, by how in love with you I was, and how terrifying it felt. I nearly lost you. Fuck I thought you weren't going to come back. But now you were there, above me, in my arms again. And you wouldn’t believe me but it’s true. I even thanked God.

The fact that I was relieved makes it worse. Looking back I should have known that was goodbye.

When I woke up, it was late in the day, and you weren’t there. I don’t know why, but I thought maybe you’d gone to your mother’s again to get some things. But then you still didn’t take your phone from where it was on the table. I called your mother. No answer. I called again and again. No answer.

That evening I went to the train station like we planned. My fear grew the longer I hadn’t received a call back. I kept missing every train, in case you were going to show up, until the next one was the one we needed to board so we wouldn’t miss our flight.

And then you were there, and it was so fucking terrible, how happy I was at first. It was a second later that I realised you didn’t have any luggage. That sad, hungry look on your face shuttered into something so unknowable to me, I could only stare back in horror.

It was kind of like going into shock. The train was arriving any minute now. You said, I’m sorry, Isak. I’m so sorry. And I became enraged. It swept upon me like a flash flood. I said, fuck you, you know that? You can just fuck off.

And I started yelling again. I started saying terrible things again. Like I didn’t want you to be here. Like I was done with you. Like I couldn’t wait until I never had to look at you again. It wasn’t the first time we’d argued in public, but it was by far the worst. It was humiliating.

Especially because you weren’t even fighting back. You were so guilty about how upset I was getting and I hated it. You kept trying to grab hold of me, to calm me down, told me how you weren’t good enough, and how sorry you were it had to be this way, and I hated it.

Like you had no choice but break our hearts like this. In my haste to pull myself out of your grip, I fell back over my suitcase and scraped all the skin off my hands. Everyone around us was staring. At the sight of the blood you started to cry.

The train was boarding. I pulled my things in after me. I could barely breathe. I looked back at you as the doors closed. Then the train rang it’s last call. And then you were gone from my sight.

(28/01)

Berlin is so dark this time of year, and my window isn’t double glazed, and in the morning sometimes it’s like I can see my breath. It can be very trying just getting out of bed.

I’ve been thinking more about it, over and over the same nightmarish scene. But then I think about what led to it, and here’s the conclusion I’ve made about Berlin. We made the decision together. It wasn’t just me going there with or without you; it wasn’t me making you come. In fact, you were the one who picked this city - we could have gone to Trondheim. Or Bergen. We could have gave London a shot too. But you chose Berlin.

We both gave up things in Oslo, we both made sacrifices. I’m sorry if I sound terribly angry, it’s just that you were the one, after all, who sung the songs of this city; painting me a promise we were going to be together. In a brand new world ahead. When the time came, I left. What else was I supposed to do? I followed through.

I know. I know. You had your reasons, you always do. Shit was so fucking rough that spring. Maybe I could have seeing it coming, but I didn’t. How could I? How could I begin to fucking imagine? Sometimes I can’t remember what happened after at all. It’s all a blur; slowly emerging from a dark place.

In a way, it’s a relief, because I’ve been thinking about you a lot, and at times I’m taken aback by how much I love you still.

As if none of it ever happened. But I know it did. I know you broke my heart because there are still pieces I’m not sure I’ll ever see again. It’s just never been the same since.

(01/02)

I haven’t been able to write for a few days because it’s as if the wind has been knocked out of me.

Sabine says I have to keep writing. But writing it out like this really makes me fucking tired. Thinking has become exhausting, and I must be paranoid from the lack of sleep. I can’t remember the last time I was able to fall asleep for longer than a couple of hours. My eyes feel like they're going to fall out of my head.

Sometimes I’m walking on the street and I think I see her. Just for a second, I’m starting right at her and I’m so sure. Sabine says this is grief. I ask her if grief makes you hallucinate like this.

I ask her if grief is hereditary like schizophrenia is. I don't want to repeat her answer here. I don’t really know where to even begin.

(02/02)

I think about it this way too. Maybe you just applied, on a whim, on the shadow of doubt. I get that. I know what it feels like to press the panic button. And you know - shit went really dark at one point. That episode scared you. All of a sudden there was this possibility it would all go to shit again. Maybe you thought it might help ease your nerves about moving  _if_ there was a back up plan. Maybe you did it in a weak moment. We all have weak moments.

Maybe there’s a universe where I never found out about the acceptance letter. No freaking out, no devastating fights. You applied in a panic, received it, and deleted the letter of acceptance. There was no consideration in the end; by then it was nearly June, and you were going to Berlin with me.

Months later, as we finally laid the final touches on our flat in Berlin, you would have told me. Confessed in that slow, sad voice you have, said hey, there was a time back when I nearly fell apart.

You'd kiss me. Tell in that slow deep way of yours, But don't worry. I'm so glad it didn’t happen. Because look. We made it.

But I shouldn’t get too carried away here. There are infinite possibilities when it comes to ruin.

(03/02)

Reading from her journals again. Her language surprisingly precise and sometimes complex. There are pages and pages of re-writes until it ends up being what she wants.

From a young age, it was clear Gabriel was her favourite. Now as I’m reading, I remember more about the angels. She even used to call me Gabriel. His name means God is my Strength, and he was one of the few named angels in the bible. She never let her love for him overshadow her devotion to God. That is idolatry, after all. And there is no better greatness than God. There is no worthier a subject to worship than God. Even the angels knew that.

She named me Isak. Derived from Isaac, meaning He Laughs. I think about this a lot.

(06/02)

I saw Sabine today. She asked me how the medication is going. I didn’t know what to say. Well, I stopped panicking in the toilets during passing time between classes. She said we’d wait and see. I didn’t tell her about going out last weekend, when I didn’t sleep for nearly two days.

She thinks it’s quite brave I read the journals, but I told her I had to.

It’s like this. Some of the smaller memories went even before she died. I’ve hardly seen her in nearly two years. Perhaps called her less than a handful of times. It’s hard to remember exactly the tone of her voice when she was happy. Or in the morning, when she’d wake me up for school. She used to love to sing.

I’m already forgetting. So it is a matter of urgency. I have to read those journals, to grasp the closest possible sense of her to me before she goes completely. For everything that rises must converge.

(07/02)

I’ve been thinking more about it. If you read the Bible, it becomes imminently clear. About the angels. They deliver fate in whichever way it is ordained. All in the name of carrying out His will. They know no different. An existence marked as an eternal witness to death and violence and suffering. It’s a lot for anyone, even an angel, to withstand.

(09/02)

My room growing up was in the front of house. There were two bedrooms, mine and Lea’s, a toilet sandwiched between us. A long corridor led to my parents’ room at the back. The light switch at the end of their hallway never worked. It meant it was always dark going in.

Lea wasn’t coming around so much anymore, but her room remained intact, and it felt like living with a ghost. My father had take a promotion, and his hours extended well into the nights and some weekends. My mother suspected an affair. My mother suspected a lot of things. She was always in her bedroom, writing things down, surrounded by a thousand papers. Sometimes she’d tell me about what she’d hear, and I’d pretend she wasn’t talking about voices in her own head.

There were these periods where she’d get really scared, and she’d ask me to check her room. I’d check at first, but the more she made me check the more it started to scare me, so I started refusing, and she’d become upset, and ask me if I was afraid, and if that was true then I should go to my room. Because if I was afraid, they’d know.

(10/02)

At first I didn’t notice because it started at night. But things were progressing. She was convinced my father was leaving, and he was going to take me with him, and she’d have no one again. No Lea, no Isak, no Terje; she had no mamma anymore, and never knew her father. In a way, how could I blame her? Her paranoia grew because she started thinking I knew I was leaving any day now, and she said lying by omission was still lying, and that’s the way of a sinner, and was I lying to her?

If I didn’t want to fight with her that day, I’d suggest we pray instead. It calmed her.

She installed a lock on the outside of my door, flat across the top. The worst part is, when Papa did leave, Jonas saw it, and he stared at it for an entire minute. I was lying on the bed, our house in shambles, too exhausted to make up any excuses. I just let it be what it was. I used my silence to dare him into action. Finally he came over and sat next to me, hands warm and strong on my shoulders. He didn’t say anything for a long, long time.

(11/02)

I wasn’t her little boy anymore. By my sixteenth birthday, things progressed. The lock became an entity all it's own. It became any time 'they' couldn't deal with me being there. She’d get so scared, and angry with me for walking around in the open. But I was just walking around the house. The kitchen was a trap, she'd warn me. Don't go in there. She’d say they were going to take me away. She said I had to stay in there until they left.

It felt like I was breaking on the inside. I didn’t know where I could go, but it couldn’t be there. The lock was an ever presenting threat. Every morning I hoped I could get to school. Every afternoon I dreaded returning. I couldn’t bear to be in my room, for fear I might end up there longer than I wanted. But the rest of the house was unavailable as well.

Sometimes she’d come to my door and cry. She’d ask me to pray with her, and I’d sit at the door and we’d say a prayer together. Usually this was a good sign, and she’d open the door and we’d sit in the corridor and she’d clasp my hands and we’d make dinner if I was hungry, and I was always hungry, you see.

At the table, sitting over half-cooked spaghetti and the saddest bolognese you’d ever seen, she’d clasp and my hands in hers and we’d pray. At the end, she -

She’d always ask God for forgiveness for me.

I don’t know why that hurts so much.

(12/02)

An hour ago I called you and wished you a happy birthday. You sounded so happy to hear from me, and peaceful, and smiling through the phone, but you were in between classes, and so we could only talk for ten minutes. No matter. It felt like someone turned a light on inside me. That’s the best way I can think to write that feeling down.

I've never known how to describe you. Words fall just short of aptly trying to explain what I mean here, when I talk about yellow, when I talk about the sun, when I talk about blinking against your brightness - it all goes to shit, because you're not just yellow, are you? You're a deep blue and I'm at the very bottom, so no matter how much light comes through it all sinks down into me. This navy fullness. You, you, you. And little me. A vastness of you; me treading forever. How the fuck am I supposed to tell someone that?

Of course, other people also see this duality in you. This essence. People notice when you walk into a room, I see them notice, because I, too, am watching. What's that word for it - captivating. Or maybe enigmatic. Well, I'd tell you one thing, one thing that's true: they only say you’re enigmatic because they don't know shit. They don't know how to deal with how you make them feel, just by the proximity of your sheer presence. You leave an impression which feels more like a wound sometimes. I know it sounds harsh, but it's actually a compliment.

It's like...the closest I can come up with is when you took me to that very first exhibition I'd ever been to. We'd been together, what - three months at that point, and you - well, I walked around, incapable of focusing on one work at a time. I understood none of it, but it didn’t escape me how important it was to you. And therefore it became important to us. That thought - the realisation that an ‘us’ existed. Afterwards I left with the understanding that something in me had been changed forever.

You're like a work of art. People pause when they come across you, unaware of how to articulate their fascination, and yet, are incapable of looking away for even a second. And...well, I fail to describe art adequately anyway. But you. Sometimes, with you, the only thing left is a feeling sitting in the seat of my stomach, a wanting, a yearning…the soft, swift devastation of an unconquerable love.

(15/02)

It’s all starting to come back now, the more I write things down. I haven’t told Sabine but I’m starting to think she’s right. Everything has been suspended in a murky staleness for a while. I mean, sometimes I’m so tired I don’t know I’m even thinking or if I’m just on autopilot. A kind of tiredness steeping in my brain until I’m forgetting words or entire afternoons. Where did it all go? Into the deep hole of tiredness, that’s where. A whole month of missing the last step on the staircase, and your stomach flipping up into your throat, and everything you can see turns black for a second. But then the world bleeds through darkness again. It’s a little disappointing to realise you can keep going on after all.

(17/02)

I went out again, and I’ve been sleeping for four days. It’s so dark here too, and just as cold. The other day it was -17 degrees, and I didn’t get out of bed except to eat ramen noodles. That was at five.

I’ve been reading her journal again, the way she would write about me growing up is like remembering parts of my childhood through a completely different light. And it’s not always so bad there.

She used to love making sweet pancakes on the weekends, especially when Lea would visit. With jam and cream. On my birthday she’d serve them to me in bed, singing me a song and we'd sit together and blow out the candles. There'd always be some small present I could open first. In the evening, we’d have another celebration with my father and a cake and repeated the entire thing over. I lfigured out early on that our morning celebration was between her and I. It was like our little secret. It makes me miss her so much.

(21/02)

I've been writing down various memories from this year, and now I'm starting to recall so much more now.

Here’s something I remember, for example. I hardly slept before my mother’s funeral. The days leading up to it are all confused, my sleep pattern stopping and starting in random intervals dissociated with frivolities like day or night.

The sun had not risen yet even deep into morning, by seven I had two missed calls from my father. I remember when I called him back. I remember his voice, how unchanged it was, how unchanged I was when I heard it. I felt unbearably small. An unimportant kind of small. He told me he wasn’t going, and maybe now I think a part of my knew he wasn’t. I thought it wouldn’t have surprised me at all if he never even bought the ticket.

I’ve regurgitated this memory as best I can. But things go sideways from here. My mind spun in centrifugal energy ricocheting ceaselessly in my brain. I’m talking about thoughts that leave exit wounds.

I remember breaking down. I only produced a hideous wailing. Like a monster, gurgling and spitting and alive. A monster alive inside of me. I remember finishing the rest of that whisky, and in a spiral of fear, I threw the empty whisky bottle on the ground. I threw the cup too. There was so much glass everywhere, and I panicked, I started to pick up shards of glass. Held them in my hands and I was so hot I thought I might explode from my skin. I shed my clothes to no relief. I was burning up.

It was snowing out. The snow felt more like frozen rain when I stood out on the balcony and stared at the blank wall of a building across from me. I started to see her face in the bricks.

I saw myself kneel. It was strangely like I was outside of my body.

There he is, I thought to myself. The upended wooden picnic table morphing into a chantry. Grief weaving a halo of thorns upon his head. His hands clasping together in prayer, blood running down his wrists. He goes to the altar and kneels, expecting to find her face carved in the wood there. Except there are no altars. No God either, or angels, or saints.

(23/02)

Jonas found me.

I almost want to know what state I was in because I don't remember anything. It must have scared him though. He said the door wasn't closed all the way and then he saw there was glass everywhere and the balcony was open and when he came into the bathroom there I was in the bath, curled up and shivering. Why was I in the bath? Maybe I thought it would make me clean.

He was dressed for the funeral. I started to cry harder, until I couldn't even take a deep breath, my chest was shivering so much. He pulled me out onto the floor and placed my head and shoulders onto his lap, turned me on my side, in case I needed to throw up. Then he found a towel to dry me off.

That's when he discovered I was still bleeding; blood kept staining the towels. He cleaned my hands and bandaged them and helped me get dressed. I was too feeble to be embarrassed. He gave me something to help me relax and I felt it all leave my body, that nervous, endless energy, running in torturous cycles around my head. Then I was just empty. I was so empty a bird could sing into the empty chambers of my heart and it would echo. Like a child, he held me at the elbow, sat me on the bed. Drunk and tired and shivering, I watched as he dried his dress shirt with the hairdryer.

The worst part is I didn’t say a damn thing. I didn’t explain anything.

Later, Jonas said I should be thankful I don't remember anything else from that morning. I disagreed, I wanted to know. So I pestered him anyway. What happened when you found me?

I don’t know.

What did you think happened?

I thought you were dead, he told me, and then I didn't ask again.

(26/02)

She'd been in bad health for a while, but ultimately, it was the pneumonia that got her. I know she probably insisted on going on a walk through the grounds, especially when it was beginning to snow in December. But then suddenly she was declining at such a rate that she couldn't go outside anymore. I know this because I called her on Christmas Eve and she was complaining that the nurses wouldn’t let her go walk in the snow. It was Christmas, for goodness sake!

She kept having to stop to hack up half her lung. It sounded awful. But she didn’t lose track of a single thing I was saying. Not even for a minute. She was still so sharp. She wanted me to come visit. She was irritated with me too, because it’d been two Christmases in a row, and was I at least going to church later that evening?

Back then I had been annoyed for being chastised. And guilty too. I knew she was right to be irate with me - moreover, I knew it was well within her right to be more upset than she actually was. I remember promising her that I’d go to church, and I’d book a ticket come spring.

But as you know, that never happened. To think it may have been different. To think I could have booked that ticket and spent Christmas with her. This is a very dark place in my mind, where I do not venture.

They told my mother died in her sleep. Peaceful, one might say. That kind of statement made it sound as if she had it any easier than regular death. Like turning over onto your side and being embraced by the afterlife. Almost graceful.

But it’s actually far more abrupt than that. How is closing your eyes with intention of opening again somehow better than knowing death is impending? Her life never flashed before her eyes. There was no goodbye. She was there, and then she wasn’t.

Here’s what they don’t know. My mother never knew peace.

(08/03)

On Saturday something happened.

Something I cannot name exactly, only that it is has submerged me further into a misery and rocks within in me like a tremendous ache. For the first time since I left I thought about calling you. I was growing desperate. Nearly a month since we spoke on your birthday. How relative time feels. How far away you are from me now.

I spent all morning blurry eyed and throwing up in the bathtub. I could barely move so I just spit up all over myself. It was fucking disgusting, and it occurred to me: fuck, sometime terrible has happened. I really might die. I don’t know where my clothes went. My body was all fucked up too, like I’d fallen at some point. I still feel like complete shit, but I know if I don’t write it now I won’t remember it later. Already the details become hazy as they turn over in front of me.

I was drugged, I’m sure of it. I just don’t remember how it happened. I just remember feeling so fucked up, the room spinning, my thoughts intelligible from one another, just a one great landslide of panic. It was hard to breath, and the anxiety was making it so much worse.

I had to calm down and make it out of this mess. I passed out, and when I awoke, all I could do was turn the shower on and lie underneath the water until I was mostly clean and I could muster the energy to move. I just kept telling myself I had to see your face again. I just kept thinking about you.

(15/03)

I cancelled on Sabine, and she became upset when I told her why, which I thought was quite fucking rude. But she just told me that I had to come in, especially when I feel like I couldn’t.

I said there was no fucking point, when I’m not in the mood to say anything. And she said that’s fine. You don’t have to. But please come to your appointments. At least for ten minutes.

I told her that was such a waste of my time. She said it’s not a waste of time at all. She said she wanted to see me.

I guess, even if she was just trying to be a good therapist, it was still the nicest thing someone’s said to me in a long time. And I think that’s really fucking pathetic.

(19/03)

I finally found the courage to leave the house. No one else was home.

I attended a sermon today. It rained all morning. Halfway through it all started coming back to me again. I remember this prayer so well.

“Protect me God because I take refuge in You. I say to the Lord, You are my Lord, apart from You I have nothing good.”

(21/03)

Sometimes I listen to the music we used to listen together. Nas and Common; occasionally Sufjan Stevens. I have to limit myself to only one song at a time, and only when I have nothing else to do in the present moment. It's too risky otherwise.

God. I can hear that song again, the one which tune always escapes me.

If you were here right now, I'd tell you the lyrics I remember. I know you'd recognise the song. There's no doubt in my mind you'd know it. It makes me want to crack with how much I miss you. I can't figure out how everything's become so terrible, but it has, and I can't explain it, but now more than I ever I wish you were here.

Come a little bit closer / hear what I have to say / just like children sleeping...

(23/03)

The only way to keep something for infinity is by losing it. Ironically, the only person who ever stuck around long enough was the same one who told me that.

I know I already written this before. But I’m so alone here. I miss you.

(31/03)

Sabine says sometimes it’s okay to write about good things too. April impending, and already stained with gloom. Everything feels barren from winter still, including me.

Last Thursday, I saw Martin again.

I walked past the Bodes Museum after seeing Sabine. He was coming out of a Humboldt building. He stopped me after we made eye contact. I could have kept walking, and averted his attempt but I didn’t. I stopped and stood there. I didn’t know what to say.

He said, hello how are you? He placed his hand on my arm and his fingers were so soft and warm. I was surprised how much I didn’t mind it. He asked: What’s going on? are you avoiding responding to my messages?

I didn’t know what to say at first. Then he asked: Can you remember now, what happened?

It started me enough that I said the truth. I let go of what was coiled inside me.

I don’t remember anything, I said. But it doesn’t matter, it’s impossible to be there now and I didn’t know how to reply to you. Because you’re right, and now I don’t know what to do. And well, do you know anyone? Because I’m looking for somewhere to live.

He just nodded. Asked me, well, how much stuff do you have? And I said, not so much, considering one suitcase is just books.

As I write this, it is my first night in his apartment. I guess it’s mine now too. I just paid in my deposit this morning. Intriguingly enough, afterwards, we sat in the kitchen listening to music. He picked up a large grapefruit, peeling it so the skin became a perfect spiral in his hand. Then he reached over and offered me half of it, juice puddling in his palm.

(03/04)

Another April plagued with snow. An irredeemable quality of Berlin that reminds me so much of home. It’s not that I mind the snow, but rather I mind that the snow reminds me of her.

She loved it so much that every first snow, no matter what she was doing, she’d bundle us up in our winter suits and trample out in our back garden, mouth open and pointed towards the sky. She said the first snowflakes always tasted like little angel tears. One time I’d asked her why the angels were crying. And she said, you wouldn’t understand, you wouldn’t know what they have to go through.

(06/04)

The last memory I have leaving Oslo again is not the memory of the airport. Or hugging Jonas goodbye, though I know it happened.

It’s sitting crossed legged across from you, our knees touching. You had the saddest look on your face, like you feared what was to come. Your mouth was parted. A distinct kind of terror welled in me again. It was so brutal that last that last day. Everything felt like it was breaking. All was hopeless. I couldn’t escape the cycle. It spent me like a wave crashing again and again. Then you reached out and your fingers just parted the hair on my head. Your touch felt so serene. You put both hands around my face, and I didn’t have to hold my head up anymore so I didn’t. You leaned in so close. I remember the song playing, of course I fucking do. I could smell your breath and my own and ours together. You did not kiss me just then. Instead you pressed our noses together, and I swear I could feel your eyelashes closing. In the space around us, as all else stilled. Then I could hear you. I could hear what you were saying to me. Quieter than any other sound.

I love you. Come back. Come back to me.

(10/04)

I received my results from Praxis City Ost Klinik. Martin and I went together when I moved in. He said it was a good idea, to know for sure. We sat in the kitchen. It’s so unbearably small in there so I sat under the window smoking a cigarette. The letter sat on the table and Martin said, shall I open it?

I said yes. Then once that was done, he asked, shall I read it?

I couldn’t bear it. I didn’t want to hear it out loud but reading it in my head felt infinitely more overwhelming. So I said yes again.

All the results were negative.

I’m not sure. I’m not sure what to feel. There was no evidence to suggest otherwise. No blood or shit or sweat or cum left behind to make me believe he had done anything. And yet, I couldn’t help but be taken aback by the power of my fear, how wide and deep it went. Whatever this is, it’s not relief.

A small part of me was hoping it would provide answers. A positive result would devastate; it would also confirm. It would tell me: this happened to you, and now you know. But at the same time it would tell me: _this_ happened to you. And now you know.

We burnt that letter right over the hob. Watched the paper curl up under the flame until it was just ash in between my fingers. After, Martin took me to his favourite falafel just near Warschauer Straße.

I didn’t know how to be alone that day. And I didn’t know how to explain it to him, this crushing weight on my chest. But he seemed to understand anyway.

(13/04)

For the sixth day in a row it’s rained, and the city is beginning to flood. You can’t walk down a main street without risking the splash of dirty water convalescing in small lakes at every corner.

I woke up singing again. I know the song, I know I know it but from where, is the question.

It has that echo - the one that tells me I heard it from her before. She must have sang it to me before.

But truthfully I didn’t know if she did or not. Those memories are so distant now, like they happened to someone else’s mother. Yet, I swear - I can almost hear her singing it in my head. A dream of a memory, or a memory of a dream?

I can’t trust that I remember exactly her voice anymore. It’s been so long since she sang at all.

(14/04)

When we were strangers / I watched you from afar

Come a little bit closer / Hear what I have to say

(16/04)

Jonas called - they finally booked their tickets for June. I won’t deny I’m nervous to see how they find the city, and me, and Martin...Our apartment is - well, the word I’d use is expressive. I know  _you_ will like it.

(18/04)

Late in the morning, I headed out for my appointment with Sabine. Wouldn’t you know, all of a sudden spring is here. The sun winking through the first infant leaves on all the trees. The aftermath of the rain warps the air. Fat globs of dew on everything.

So it feels like the right day to begin again. I came home and opened the drawer and I took them out. I looked for the postcard from earliest timestamp. It’s from the end of October. How long had we been broken up at that point?

Four months, which sounds like a long enough time, but of course it did not feel that way. You were like a ghost in my life. Your absence was a presence all it’s own.

I remember reeling from the realisation I was alone for the first time, and the world felt overwhelming all at once. It felt so fucking big. I had arrived three months before the term was to start, without an apartment and without a plan. I remember walking to Bard in a panic and making up some excuse to the head of student life in order to get her to help me figure out accommodation. I was alone for the first time in my life. I wondered how many other universes I was alone too.

It’s funny, when I was sixteen you told me how you didn’t really care for those theories. And I’ll never forget what you said next. They gave you a ‘brain-is-alone’ feeling. I remember it still because I didn’t get it at the time. All I knew was hoping my entire life that there was another Isak out there who was happier. Who had a mother who wasn’t crazy. A father who cared more. And a sister who stayed.

But now. I get it now.

(19/04)

I can’t stop writing now, not really, now that I’ve begun to read the postcards. I’ve told myself already that I want to take my time.

I was going to write out what it was like. I decided to write you a letter because I have too much to say. I wrote it out and then I realised maybe I should actually send it to you. So I started over.

I found that I couldn’t really write it like I do here. I think it’s because I know you’ll read over it and thinking about everything. Probably further into it than even I’m predicting. And - well. You know I’m not a writer. I only started this because of Sabine anyway. In the letters at least I’ll try to be more restrained.

I guess I feel some sort of responsibility to whatever we could have that I don’t want to be such a fucking mess. That’s something that happens to me, where I just, I don’t know, sometimes it just gets so fucking shit, and you- well, I don’t want to ruin anything for you. It sounds so fucked up when I write it. But it’s true.

I don’t know how to else explain, just that - if you read some of the things I think about, or how shitty I feel sometimes, I think it would scare you away. Rightfully so. I can see pockets of light and I’m so inspired, but they’re often tethered with a messy puddle of darkness staining everything, where the messes in my brain slip up again and end up all over the page. I wouldn’t blame you for hesitating at all - I’ve done that and much worse to you before.

Sabine told me it stems from a fear of burdening you with my own problems. And I agreed with her, which surprised us both. But it’s true. Because what if you don’t want me, after you find out about everything that’s happened?

(20/04)

Earlier I woke up to find Martin and some of his friends - Felix, Peter, Yanny who lived here before me, and Chiara, all crowded in our tiny kitchen. It was just before noon and they were eating brunch. The window was open and I could smell the rain, how heavy and sour it was, and Martin said, would you like some breakfast? I made plenty.

For whatever reason I didn’t refuse. I said yes. I started towards the counter but he wasn’t having any of that. He told me to sit down in my ‘spot’ and I didn't know what he meant, so I sat down on the stack of crates, aware of how awkward it was that I was on one side and his friends all on the other.

He made me plate of eggs and grapefruit and bread, and informed me we’re all on joint rolling duty for today.

What’s special about today, I asked.

He said, it’s four-twenty. You know what I mean? I know you smoke. You gonna partake?

And I surprised myself a little more. His breakfast really was nice. The eggs were still warm. I said, well. I guess I am now.

(21/04)

I miss her smell. I went into a department store, the big Galleria at Alexanderplatz, because Martin’s Roomba was broken and I said I’d take it into get it repaired. On the way, I passed a perfume counter. The smell stopped me right in my tracks.

I went to the counter, so sure it was the exact same perfume. I stared at all the bottles. The labels were slightly different than I remember but they had the same one. Rose and Vetiver. I imagined they made the same sound if you’d clink them together. Exactly as when I was a child, knocking them together on her little silver tray.

I asked the lady how much one was. Forty-four euros, she told me. A lovely gift for a girlfriend or mother.

I bought it. The entire way home it grew slick in my sweaty palm as I clutched in my pocket, thinking in pitiful circles which led nowhere but back into themselves. I wondered if she ever had a moment in Oslo where a memory of me was triggered. The sound of a football being kicked; an old movie we used to like; it's like I had a smell to her as well.

How terrible it must have been for her, to feel like she didn’t even have a son anymore. To be so alone in the world.

It was more than fair, I think, for me to be carrying around a bottle of her perfume just so I could feel something. Something akin to closeness. I imagined putting it on later that night and hugging myself and pretending it was her hugging me instead. How sad it is, to miss her this way, when I never allowed myself to miss her before.

There are so many things I wish I could tell her. If only there was a telephone line straight up to Heaven. But the dead are dead, meaning they're no longer required to listen to us anymore.

(22/04)

Well, I didn’t go to class today (big surprise) and I was so tired. I slept until four I think. Martin kept coming in, first bringing my breakfast, then to see if I needed anything from the store, then to ask me if I’m sick.

I said, can’t you go bother some of your other friends? I’m tired.

He said, okay, I don’t want to offend you, or whatever, but I just want to ask you something. Are you depressed? Because I’ve looked up the symptoms and I think you’ve hit nearly every single criteria.

I couldn’t tell you what I thought, what it could be, only that the cold stroke of fear woke me right the fuck up. Martin looks at me the same way you used to. Like he already knows, and now he’s just wondering if I’m gonna tell him the truth or not.

Well, I thought about the conversations I’d had this week with Sabine. I thought about the concept of truth. I said to him, yes, well, it’s a long story. He asked if it was about what happened with my roommate. I told him, yes, that’s part of it.

And the other part?

Well, I admitted it. I told the whole long story. About her. About me. It’s been ages since I explained it. The last time where I fully went into it was with Sabine, and then it was still fresh, and I could talk about it like it happened to someone else. Over time though, it’s started sink in. Her death grows on the walls like a single thread of ivy. All of a sudden it’s everywhere, all over the ways, entire rooms of ivy. I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I guess what I mean is, I’m getting used to her really being gone, and it’s disturbing me, and I don’t want to talk about it, when it’s like - this -

On his part, Martin was fairly receptive. He didn’t interrupt except to ask her name. What she liked to do.

Her name was Marianne. She was a professor and a poet. And a mother.

A poet. So the poetry you gave me to use...I watched as it all pieced together, my whole great tragic backstory.

It’s her’s, isn’t it?

I wish I could write and tell you it was freeing. But it wasn’t. It really wasn’t. It was almost like reliving everything all over. But Martin didn’t disappoint me. We moved out onto the balcony and he rolled a joint. He even let me sit in his wicker chair, and we listened to music through the open kitchen window. We laughed about random shit. It made me realise how long it’s been since I had an inside joke with anyone. With you. I’ve missed it.

I’ve thought about it already. I think Martin must have been disappointed in  _me_. At least a little. He’s very close with his mother, never mind her shortcomings. He would have gone back both Christmases. I think it says a lot about who I’ve been, and the kind of person I was. Or am. Maybe I’m projecting here. It’s just that the thing is, the fucking thing is, I’d agree with him. I’m disappointed too.

The difference between us is this. Regardless of what my story made him feel, he was thinking about me first. He was the one to invite me to come hangout on the balcony, smoke one, watch a film (well, he’d watch a film, I’ll definitely fall asleep) - not me. He reached out. He keeps reaching out and pulling me back. This is the kind of friend I want to start being again.

(24/04)

I should be studying but I cannot.

Her birthday is today. How old would she have been? I don’t want to count. I went to another sermon. The pastor preached about forgiveness and sin.

I bowed my head and tried to breathe in a steady, measured way, hoping it would ease this ache in my chest. The pain runs down along the lines of my arms. It feels like a heart attack but I know it isn’t. I wouldn’t be so lucky to die now. Not this young. I still have a life ahead of me.

I sat down on the chair on the balcony and I took another deep breath, this time full of fresh air. I imagined I was you for a moment: trying to meditate. My breathing was all off.

I can never be you, no matter how much I try. You wouldn't stand for it anyway. You used to tell me when we were younger: there’s no point having two of me if there isn’t already two of you. I used to call you fucking cheesy. But I loved when you said it. I loved that you believed in me.

Instead, I found myself looking for the largest visible star. I try to recall as many of her previous birthday’s as I can. If she celebrated twenty-five birthdays before I existed, and she’d had twenty more since, how many of those did I spend with her? Maybe seventeen, I guessed. I’ve missed a few. And how many did I actually remember? Probably about half. Eight or nine birthdays. My head started to hurt, right behind the eyes. I hugged my knees - in that childish way like I used to, like someone punched me right in the fucking stomach. I didn’t know what to do. It was so difficult to breathe.

What would she have told me to do?

I sat up and found the star again. I put my hands together. As soon as I willed it, the words returned with hardly any effort.

I thank You, my heavenly Father, through Jesus Christ, Your dear Son, that You have graciously kept me this day; and I pray that You would forgive me all my sins where I have done wrong, and graciously keep me this night. For into Your hands I commend myself, my body and soul, and all things. Let your holy angel be with me, that the evil foe may have no power over me. Amen.

(25/04)

When I woke up, Martin wasn’t there. I hadn’t slept until just a few hours ago. I took a shower and then I put on a sweater from my eighteenth birthday. I remember your face when I opened the box. Now the sleeves have thumb holes worn in them from use.

I think for a moment I fell asleep. Plagued with restless stops and starts. When I awoke, I realised I was not alone. Martin was there too. He smelt like wine, and he was wearing a pair of silk pyjamas. I remember because they were bright shiny blue even in the darkness.

He said, hey, ma cher. You were shouting in your sleep. I said nothing to that. I could feel my face was wet.

Instead I asked, did you have a nice evening?

You know what he did? He shrugged. Said he preferred it here, at home with me. I immediately called bullshit, because listen. I’m aware of how I can be sometimes. And I’m angry about it, angry about being angry. I mean, I’m not being ridiculous, it’s not in an obvious way. But sometimes I’m in these moods with Martin calls Exit Only, which I’m pretty sure is a reference to something vulgar and also doesn’t make any sense in any language, no matter which one. Regardless, it means what it means. When I’ve gone Exit Only, even  _he_  doesn’t bother with me.

I usually just lock myself in my room, or I try and suffer through my shifts at the library. My attendance at university is a laughable joke at this point. But it’s the truth. I’m not great company right now, okay? Why do you think I haven’t called yet?

I’m boring and unglamorous, not at all like his friends.

He told me to shut up. No, you little shit, I’m serious. Sometimes, there’s what looks right, and what  _feels_ right.

Whatever. I said he was full of it. He said, come here, come here, stop being a bitch and let me hug you.

No. I don’t need it.

Please, he scoffed. You think this is about _you_? It’s about  _me_. I need it. Etiénne completely ghosted me when we ran into each other at the gallery opening, and I’ve been feeling pitiful and tender all night.

I knew he was lying, but he knew I was lying too. So I rolled into his arms and they folded in around me and we stayed like that for a long time.

(28/04)

It’s nights like these, in long stretches of time where I am paralysed by my own thoughts. This won’t work, whatever it is between us. I know it won’t because I’ll just end up hurting you.

It’s fucking ridiculous. God, I fucking know it is, because you used to say that to me and I always thought you were full of shit. How could we know who would hurt who? Wouldn’t it hurt if we didn’t try either?

But I know now what you mean. It’s sad to me, that through this grief, I’ve finally begun to understand you better. I’ve had a taste of real terror. I understand what it feels like to be trapped in your own mind.

Somehow it makes me miss you more.

Here’s the thing. Spring is here, things are improving. I can feel it. But then - there’s no such thing as sleeping through the night. At least not consistently. I’d wake you up, tossing and turning.

A couple nights until a couple nights becomes every night. I might shout in my sleep. I may drench the sheets in sweat and be irritated about it, because I'll need to remake the bed and it’s the third time in two weeks I’ve had to do so. No room for good mornings. How will you ever get a good night’s sleep with me around?

Other times, everything seems fine, only to realise later I’ve misplaced entire afternoons. I go to class a couple days in a row and I’m like, see, this is easier, only to remember I’ve forgotten to eat breakfast, and lunch, and I have hours of seminars to go. Dinner is me being a disaster in front of a kebab shop at eleven in the evening on a Tuesday. And the thing is, you never really know. The next day it could start all over again. The next day I could forget dinner exists too.

(05/5)

I had that dream again. It’s been months of this, but until now, I haven’t had the energy to write it all out.

I don’t know what’s worse, during or after.

Okay. It starts in my childhood room, with the same blue duvet and the Totoro poster behind my desk, and she’s is rattling the doorknob, trying to get in. This, I know used to be a memory. But then it swerves out of context. My mother could just flip the lock at the top. But she doesn’t.

The rattling becomes louder and louder, until I can’t take it anymore. I lunge to open it because it’s starting to scare me.

But as soon as I’ve touched it the door swings wide open. I’m in a park blanketed in grey snow. I follow of a path of footsteps gorged deep in it. I don’t recognise where I am The trees lining the edges of the field are black and ominous and they make me anxious.

Of course. Where the footprints end there is a small mound of snow. I fall to my knees and thrust my hands in it, feeling, pushing the snow out of the way. I keep going until I’ve made a half circle high up around me.

Please let it be just snow, I think. But I know it is not and I feel sick. I uncover her. She’s curled up in her white dress, peaceful with her hands pillowing her waxy cheek. She’s frozen. I cry and hope my tears will be hot enough to melt her into life again. I think, who let you wander off into the snow,? I cry harder. Who let it happen? Who let it happen?

I always wake up nauseous and doused in cold sweat. I know who let it happen. I knew how much she loved when it snowed.

(06/05)

When I was fourteen, things changed. It wasn’t just my parents arguing. It was entirely different. I understand what happened better now. She suffered from what was likely a major psychotic episode. It had probably been triggered by stress, brewing underneath for years. Maybe she already knew; maybe she had a feeling somewhere in the back of her mind. I won’t know now, unless I find it in one of her journals.

She had her first major episode. I spent most of my time out of the house, as much as I could. Things had been getting intense and weird.

Then my father left and she had a another which she couldn’t recover from; not really. rather than being appropriately treated for this, she was fired from her job, left alone in a dark house with a moody pre-teen son and a emotionally distant husband. She was ignored. Why would no one listen to her anymore? Were we not a family any longer?

(07/05)

Sometimes I’ll have this dream about us. I’m on the platform, and the train’s about to depart, and I know that any possibility of an ‘us’ is on that train. Every second I’m running, I’m praying that the doors won’t close. Please don’t close. Please don’t close. I make to the train, and it’s so full, and I realise, as I looking for you that you’re not there. I’m alone. Then I’m thinking, please don’t let the train leave yet, please don’t let the train leave yet. I never find out whether or not you make it or not; I always wake myself up before it ends.

(08/05)

Around five this morning, Martin and I were sitting out on the little pond outside Sisyphos. It was this week-long birthday celebration for the club, and Alix was playing one of the sets that night. The pond is in the back, underneath a rustic looking tree house. A thousand lights strung up and flickering above us. We were both off our faces on ket. It’s the second Big Thing I revealed. I told him about us.

This time it was sort of humorous.

I know had you been there too, you'd insist on taking a photo to capture the moment. You'd break the rules and pull out your camera and we'd let you. The way the lanterns dangled above us; just fat read blobs floating like jellyfish in the breeze. The sun rising behind us in the east, behind the trees, our feet incapable of remaining still as they twitched just over the water, skimming the surface every so often. Martin’s face as he attempted to hold a serious conversation with two large pink hearts drawn around his eyes, pupils blown up like saucers. He kept pointing his cigarette holder at me, and it nearly burned a hole in my t-shirt when he forgot he was still smoking something.

I had a heart too, but just around one eye. I'll confess. Only here I’ll confess. So: I liked it. It felt nice to be drawn on. The the glitter was wet and the brush tickled a little. I liked being aware of my face, and when I saw myself in his mirror, I actually looked pretty cute. Like I said. You would have insisted on a photo.

Martin touch was so light when he put it on, maybe especially so, like he  _knew_ somehow - and it felt like a shared secret, and it made me giddy. Despite knowing that it was only I who felt so exposed this way; for Martin it was just part of who he was.

How many times had I been taught gentleness my life? Hardly ever.

Probably why half of it ended up smudged across my knuckles. All pink and red and mixed with sandy grime, as if I'd gone and punched someone right in the mouth.

I remember that evening so clearly. Talking about you. God, how I just started and then I couldn't stop. It all poured out of me, and I kept slurring a little, especially your name enough that Martin started teasing me. Everything smelt like smoke, my skin, my hair, my tongue. I kept re-lighting my cigarette only for it to burn out again.

He asked me: what is it like? I asked, what do you mean? And he said: falling in love?

I looked at my knuckles again. I don’t know, I said, I’ve only ever been in love with one person

Suddenly I knew, without knowing where it came from. Falling in love with you was like being flung off a swing once you've made it to the highest point. You’re soaring through the air, gut somersaulting between your teeth. You know the landing will hurt. You do it anyway. You do it again and again.

(10/05)

Everything feels so big sometimes. Consider all the varying worlds in different parallels. Think of all me’s scattered out there. I mean. Just think of all the you’s.

No one can convince me otherwise that there isn’t another  _us_  out there. Probably more than one, where things went differently. Those other versions of us dance too far out of reach to actually console me of anything right now. You feel so far away.

(13/05)

...There are stories of which I do not want to admit, save only for here, where it remains hidden. It’s been almost five weeks since I’ve moved. Sometimes I forget how bad it was there for a moment, how fucking close I was to the edge of something I can’t return back from easily.

What’s even more is that I actually like living with Martin. Once you meet him you’ll understand what I mean - he’s a lot. But we work well together, more than I could have guessed. It's also weird as hell. I’d say he reminds me of Eskild - in spirit, I guess. Except they’re so completely different, and comparison really only does them a disservice.

It’s like Eskild always said. No two gays are the same.

How do I describe living with Martin? It’s like this. He fills up all these spaces I didn’t even know existed before. I recognise the lack of absence more than anything. He's in a perpetual state of just coming home, or at my elbow at the sofa when I’m waking up my nap, or starting dinner exactly as I’m arriving home from university. Does he time it like that on purpose? Then I realise it doesn’t really matter, because either way, I’m part of it. I’ve even started to integrate into his group of friends.

It's actually quite comforting that he’s always around. I’ve heard this before, but never really understood it. People say you never know how lonely you are until you aren’t anymore. I guess that’s true. But looking back I still don’t know if it just happened that way or I made it that way.

(14/05)

The days are steadily improving, but then, there’s always shit lurking around somewhere.

Well, my sleep is still so fucked up. I don’t know what to do about it. Sabine suggests I change my medication but I don’t want to. She asked me why I am so afraid of change. I told her, well, fuck, does anyone not fear it?

She asked me what my mother would think of all these dreams I'm having. I started to get annoyed. I said, that’s the whole point of me being here, isn’t it? Why would I need a therapist, if my mother was still alive, if I could ask her myself? And then Sabine said: well, would you dream of her, if she was alive? I told her to go fuck herself.

Sometimes I’m so angry at her, I’m convinced I’ve never resented someone so much in my life.

I started getting angry, and then I was yelling. I felt overcome with rage, a rage to punish someone for what has happened. For what cannot be undone. I scared myself a little; I hadn’t lost control like that in months. In shame, I slumped low in my chair, and she held out a tissue between us, like a white flag.

I don’t know what to take away from this session. Sometimes you go to therapy and you don’t learn shit. Only a reminder of how fucked up everything is. But I do know that I can’t bear the idea of yelling at you when I’m like this. It’ll break my heart. It’ll break me all over again.

(18/05)

I’ve decided I want to return to Oslo. Fuck the summer courses. Fuck graduating early. I need to see you now. This summer. I’ve read five out of the ten now, and my return is necessary. I told Martin I wanted to go back for a while, and he said it would work out just fine. He could sublet my room to a classmate who needed a studio space for July.

He was sad, because summer is the best time in Berlin. I promised I’d be back in August. Back before he knew it. And you know what, when he told me he’d miss me - I believed him.

I fear that this term didn’t go so well, but they haven't kicked me out. So who knows. Tobi asked me if I wanted to work this summer and I told him no. I can’t face another summer stuck in the student library at Bard. It makes me feel so guilty, even though it’s true. And this spring so far has been an experiment in truth.

(20/05)

That song again. It’s not bothered me for weeks now, and then all of a sudden I wake up and I can’t stop singing it again under my breath. There’s a memory I have, of being swung around the kitchen in our family house. Lea is there, and she’s in her church clothes sitting on the counter, and she’s laughing really loud in the background. When I try to look at who’s spinning me, I find I can’t see their face. Doesn’t matter. I know it’s her. I can hear her laughing in the dream too. And her singing. It’s so beautiful, her voice.

Come a little bit closer / Hear what I have to say

(24/05)

I remember the first time I saw you.

You were sitting in the canteen; across the room. I remember thinking about your smile. How it lit up your entire face, how it forced your eyes to fold up like accordion fans, how I heard your laughter trickle through all the other noise that day. I remember feeling the heat rise in my cheeks when our eyes connected; you were looking at me and smiling like you had been waiting for me to look up.

It was more than that. I remember what you used to say: it was like you’d been waiting for me this entire time. I know it. I knew that feeling too.

I don’t know how I knew it, but I just did. After you, everything changed. Things were different after that.

(26/05)

Sabine and I have been discussing what it means to disassociate. I guess I have been doing that for a while, from the way she’s described it. It’s like being sliced from your own body so smoothly you don’t even bleed.

She says when I realise I’m watching myself, I need to ask why I’m doing it. Am I scared? In pain? Overwhelmed? I tell her sometimes it’s not so easy to decide on which one.

She tells me: well, try. Try to name it. Once you name it, the power reduces. You can name it and put it in a box. The box itself is called a feeling. You can open the box, and you can close the box too. And then. You can come back. You can come back to yourself.

Well, it’s getting better I guess. Martin, bless him, even fucking told me  _I_  was being too nice to him, and I said Jesus, fuck off, can’t I be tender in silence?

He smiled at me and shook his head. Eat your grapefruit. Actually, we should get a drink and -

Appreciated but unnecessary, I told him. Fuck that. A celebration? That’s so grim and it’s not even nine am.

What the fuck was I supposed to say?

Hey, can we drink to the fact that my brain has stopped evacuating my body, after it’s sufficiently waged war on itself? It’s not like that would fit on a cake anyway, though I wouldn't put it past Martin to figure something out. Any reason for a party.

(29/05)

This journal is nearly filled. I forgot to note it, but in back March, Sabine started recording my sessions for me so I can revisit things later. Just in case I forget. She says it can be traumatic to do this to yourself, but I insist. I don’t want to forget anything anymore. I want that trauma; I want it to last. Sometimes the only way you keep something forever is by making it hurt.

(31/05)

And it’s true I never understood, until I grew up, and realised just what angels do. They spent their entire existence praising God. And what does God do in return? God condemns them to bloodshed. In return, there is only worship. A sacrifice is just a sacrifice. Real faith is returning to your knees again.

(01/06)

Well, here we are. The last page. I’m not sure, I’m not sure what to say here. Instead, I will recite my day, which is funny considering this  _is_ a diary, and I suppose one would do this in a diary, and yet I’ve never thought to make a list of all the mundane shit I do. But here we go.

I woke up around six am. I know. But I was awake then and felt terrible, so I ran myself a bath. Sometimes, in the morning before Martin wakes up, I like to do this and just lie in the water with my entire body submerged, even my ears. All I can hear is the pressure of the water against my eardrum. After I showered I watered some of the plants. There’s a Queen Anne Fern which I might move to the kitchen window, because it’s losing spores left and right and becomes a hassle to clean every day. I bought Martin a book on how to care for houseplants when I moved in, but it was me who ended up reading the entire thing one night to try and help me fall asleep.

In the summer it’s nice to focus on the plants. The less time I spend organising all the books in our living room while I can’t sleep the better.

By the time I had made it halfway through tending to the kitchen plants, Martin was awake and after his first cup of coffee and a cigarette against the windowsill, we made breakfast together. It’s nice when I’m awake before him because then I’m not usually as grumpy.

A song played on the radio, one that you used to play all the time. He told me he got a bunch of free magic mushrooms from a guy who owed him from a couple of parties ago, and that if I wanted, we could take them when my friends are here.

After we ate breakfast, his mother called him and he went outside. I sat at my desk. I pulled out my journal and read through some of the earlier entries. I try not to do that too often, because it can sour my mood for hours after. But today I did. I re-read what I wrote when I wrote about you, ‘you’ as a painting. I thought about what colour you are.

I thought about what colour I might be. Someday I’ll ask you.

But after awhile I couldn't really go any further. March was so fucking dark. Instead I read some old essays by Heidegger I still have in a binder for class. I thought about  _sein-zum-tode_ again, but in a way that lifts my spirits; reminds me that I have a spirit in the first place. I know someday I will die. I know someday you will die, and selfishly, I hope to dear God you’ll die after me, because you’d handle it far better than I would.

Death makes you think about life. This is Heidegger’s entire point. And there were a lot of things I misunderstood growing up. Some of it was not my fault. Some of it was.

I was her own angel, here on earth. She called me her little Gabriel, didn’t she? She was an orphan, and so much younger than my father. If she thought marrying him would give her a large extended family, it did not. She was only ever that random religious girl he met online straight after his separation with Lea’s mother; the ink had barely dried on the papers. I was the cousin a decade younger than everyone else. The little boy - what’s his name again? - who couldn’t come over on Sunday’s because I was at Church. Sometimes at Christmas parties we’d end up going out together in the snow for a hour after dinner, just to get away from them all.

The point is. She and I - we’re not so different. We’ve always been outsiders. Always a little misunderstood, and sensitive about it. So called plight of the lonely.

We had each other. So what if she was just Terje’s second wife; so what if Lea had her own mother. When I was born -

She’d always be my mamma. No one could take that away from her.

Here’s what I’m realising, these last few months. I think I always knew, in a way - but now I’ve had no other choice but to acknowledge her truths, instead of wallowing in my own resentment.

Despite how her illness distorted reality, my mother knew she loved me. This never changed.

And she tried, in her own way, to make sense of it all. She wasn’t angry with me. She didn't regret my existence. She didn't hate me either. It feels so enormous and yet at times unbearably simple to grasp.

She was scared for me.

Fear grew until it ate us up and we sat in the belly of it. Reality and paranoia were not so much blurred lines, but rather, a gaping divergence in the universe. Both of us trapped in inside it together; the trench so deep it it was been nothing but darkness down there.

I wish I had reached out to someone. Anyone. She didn't know where the exit from the madness was. The lights all off. At least not without a little help.

Frankly, she deserved better. When she died, I regretted that I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. Except the reality is I had many chances. She’d been stable the last couple years; it was  _me_ who couldn’t be brave. I told myself all sorts of dark self-hating thoughts I’d concocted to explain her behaviour towards me as a teenager. I understand why I did that. But when I - when I moved to Berlin, I left things with her. I never considered healing as an option.

I regret is doubting she really loved me. I regret that this is so obvious to me now in the wake of her death. I regret, I regret.

I can’t take any of it back. If I could, I would in a second. I’d go home no matter how much Oslo felt like a giant gaping hole in my heart. I’d call her. I’d tell her I’d love her. I’d like to think she can hear me up in Heaven; that she’s smiling, and it’s beautiful, wherever it is. I’ll continue to sit here, at my desk, the sun shining, my roommate laughing through the window, and it’s okay, here - on earth, alive - taking it day by day. Or hour by hour.

Minute by minute. Atonement is finite. Love lasts forever.

And what I do know this is: I loved her. I will continue to love her. And I will honour her life the best I can. I will remember all of her; not just the parts which hurt. I will remember the good times - times we were together. As a child, she felt like my entire world.

Well, for a long time, she was my entire world. But she was also only a human. There were so many things out of her hands. I forgive her. I wish I had been able to tell her to her face, but I wasn’t ready yet. I forgive her. In this forgiveness, I pray to God I can learn to forgive myself.

Sometimes, on my way back from Taborkirche, I pass by the crying woman statue in Treptower Park and I recite her favourite prayer:

“My soul magnifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my saviour. Amen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One thing I really want to shout out is reading [do not let me be put to shame](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15931688) by Alene - which I greatly admired her nuanced portrayal of Marianne, as it says a lot about how fair the treatment of Isak's mother. All of this, in part, triggered me to reflect further again. So thank you, Alene, for providing an opportunity of growth there. 
> 
> Ultimately, the more I wrote about Isak's story, the more I was revisiting the question of Isak's mother. Personally, I'm a little bothered by how she was portrayed so abstractly in the first part of this story, and in turn I think Isak was a little bothered by it throughout the journal entries. Does this make sense? I recognised what I wrote at the time reflected how I felt about a lot of things. It's been nearly 10 months of writing this story now. Through writing this verse, which I have enjoyed very much, and at times has deeply frustrated me, or caused me to lose sleep, things are beginning to make sense again. I love Isak. I really love him. I wanted to do him justice. I can only hope you will feel this way too.


	7. The Postcards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally, here we are.
> 
> I'd like firstly to thank Heidi for all that she does and continues to do. She always disagrees, but writing this fic is not just me; the love and energy and patience and pure excitement she's had for this story has enabled me to continue on, regardless of moving three times, travelling, being at times depressed or stressed or busy - she was always there, always providing me a safe space to talk about my favorite boys and this behemoth fic I was writing. This is dedicated to you, my liebling. You are the brightest star I've had the fortune to encountered. 
> 
> Secondly, I'd love to send immense thanks to everyone who has commented, kudo-d, bookmarked, and read. You all mean so much to me. I take it all in with a mixture of disbelief and admiration and love. A whole lot of love.
> 
> I'd like to shout-out also to Hachibe, hopetoseeyouagain, and tonespeeler on tumblr for their incredible edits. Thank you all so much. You make my days so exciting and intriguing and I'm so indebted to your talent. I will posting a discography of this fic - a back log of all the art, music, poetry, themes, tropes, locations soon in the future when I have more time, and those will be linked in the appropriate places. 
> 
> For now, however, you can see all them & more if you look at my [h.moon tag](odeto-psyche.tumblr.com/tagged/h.moon) here. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the postcards. Do know that these are not required to enjoy the story - which ends in chapter five. Similarly to Isak's journal, they are only for those who want to read it but do not necessarily take anything away from the story itself.

**1 /**

October: Arthur's Seat, Edinburgh, Scotland

Transcript: For Fall break we decided on Scotland. I’m not sure why. You wouldn’t believe how windy and cold it is here, but this city is beautiful. Dark and dramatic and everything I could have never predicted.

I went into St. Giles and lit a candle for you. I know it’s not exactly the right sentiment - but it felt right at the time. Just so you know we’re thinking of you.

Hugs from Isak and Even.

 

**1 /**

18 April

Dear Even,

Well, I’ve read now the first postcard. I wasn’t going to write you at all but I am learning how to be honest. So. The first truth: her birthday is next week, which I don’t expect you to remember. The second truth: I wish I was there to lie flowers on her grave.

The third is this: it’s so strange to think that just last year I was two days late in sending her card, and the company which I ordered flowers from fucked up and delivered on the wrong day. In hindsight, my mother probably would have liked it if I just went for the weekend to visit her. Flying from Oslo to Berlin takes less than two hours and is usually, if planned right, under sixty euros round trip. I try not to think of the things I should have done - as they serve no purpose, especially not for her - but it is difficult. They slither into my brain like snakes in the grass until I realise I’m in a garden full of them and I don’t know which way to turn.

The only thing which tempers the blow of her death is the knowledge that she did not truly know me for the terrible son that I was. That was you; you saving me from such a fate. A part of me thinks how stupid it was for you to write her after we’d broken up, pretending to be ‘us’ when I could have very likely been writing her too.

But here’s the crux of it all: you know me. Surely, even years later, you know me better than anyone else. You knew I wouldn't have told her broke up, and you know I likely wouldn’t be writing her. In a way, I know you so well too. I know why you wrote her in the first place. I know you had your own reasons. You always do. All these secrets and lies we told felt like it finally served a purpose. I understand what it's like to try to avoid being forgotten entirely.

Two, actually: you could pretend there was a world where we were still together. It probably felt a little an escape. And you could pretend I was a good enough person to write my fucking mother. But this isn’t how it happened.

We must face this unfriendly truth. And then we can get past it.

Isak.

 

**2 /**

December: St Paul's Cathedral, London, England

Transcript: Merry Christmas. I hope the service is good this year, and it’s at the Sagene Church. We’re thinking of you. You’re in our prayers.

Hugs from Isak and Even.

 

**2 /**

27 April

Dear Even,

The Christmas one is hard for me. It’s the smallest of sentiments, perhaps because you were aware I might be half-way decent and send her a card, or perhaps you thought I’d even return home to visit. That first semester I nearly did. Instead I called her on Christmas Eve, before dinner and the evening sermon. She was so happy to hear my voice she started to cry, and we stayed on the phone for a several minutes as she calmed down. I told her, hey, mamma, don’t cry, it’s just me. And she said, oh, don’t worry about me, I’m just an old lady who cries sometimes.

Except she wasn’t that old; it was the illness which had aged her. There are consequences if schizophrenia goes untreated long enough; she told me this in a matter of fact way that made me flinch. I remember playing with the hem of one of your old sweatshirts, the blue one, with the white strings? I guess it was ‘ours’ because we shared nearly everything. Anyway, I was playing with the hem, pulling out all the threads where they’d gone ragged, and sitting on the staircase in an empty hallway in student housing. She asked, are you enjoying yourself, at least seeing a new part of the world? I looked up St. Giles; it looks like a beautiful church.

I remember thinking I had no idea what she was on about, but I was so used to it, so all I did was play along. Oh, yes, it was lovely, I told her. Then it was time for her dinner to be served. She wished me a merry Christmas. She recited her favourite evening prayer over the phone. I told her I loved her. I told her I didn’t know when I’d see her next, but that as soon as I could, I’d let her know.

She said: oh, baby. You know your mamma is always here. So you enjoy yourself, and come back whenever you're ready.

I don’t write this to tell you in order to hurt you. That’s the last thing I want; for you to be in any kind of agony. But I don’t know who else to tell. I have this fear that if I don’t write these memories down as they arrive then they’ll be gone forever. I’m sorry to force you into this position, but the pitiful truth of it is I don’t know who else would be better than you.

Isak.

 

**3 /**

February: Musee d'Orsay, Paris, France

Transcript:

 _Art is the compulsion of man towards crystallisation_  - Edvard Munch, 1907-1908

Paris is beautiful in the winter. Like being inside a snow globe. There are lights everywhere and it gives off a particular yellowed glow. Someday we should go together. And then you could see these works of art yourself. This entire city is one giant work of art.  

Hugs from Isak and Even.

 

3/

4 May

Dear Even,

I imagine Paris is beautiful - and full of art, just as you said. I also imagine it's full of twats, the kind that you somehow tolerate but which infuriate me to no end. Why do people have to act superior to other's? It's such a waste of time. 

I've been thinking more and more about the conversations we've had when I left, about how I wanted to be brave. I guess it's a work in progress, this bravery thing - learning how to grow back into a person I'm proud of. It's been a long five months since I've seen you, and so much has changed. Regardless of what's been fucked up before, I don't regret it. I don't regret seeing you again, I don't regret ditching my friends to walk home with you along the Akerselva River. And I know it's been a quiet winter on my part - the last time we really spoke being your birthday, and I feel shit about that. I really do. But I had to make sure I was ready. I had to make sure I wouldn't just fuck everything up with you again. 

My roommate is finishing one of his final projects currently, and the flat is a complete fucking mess. It reminds me so much - in a fond way, I promise - of those times when you'd wrap yourself in a new idea and I'd come back from class and all the furniture would be re-arranged and you'd push the desk up against the window, a hundred-and-one prototypes hanging up all around you. Your fingers all stained with paint and ink and your smile nearly blinding. I love how much you love art, even when I don't understand it - sometimes,  _especially_  because I don't. It's what makes you....well, you. And I'd like to spend - only if it is okay with you, of course - I'd like to spend the near future just getting to know that person again. And showing you who I am, and hoping, in my deepest of hopes...that you will feel the same spiral of curiosity, that you won't be able to help yourself; you will want to know me too. 

Don't forget this, either. It's very important you understand. That city is one giant work of art because you're looking for the beauty _first_. Maybe Paris makes it easy, looking the way it does. But you are the one who sees it; that's just who you are. And you shouldn't forget how special it makes you.

Isak. 

**4 /**

March: A white stone village in Santorini, Greece

Transcript:

Spring time here. In Greece for Easter.

And the child grew and became strong; he was filled with wisdom, and the grace of God was on him. [Luke 2:40]

It is warm and picturesque here, the sea so blue and clear I couldn’t stand to take any photos of it. They just don’t do them any justice. We’re only here for a week or so.

Happy Easter (and birthday). We will light a candle for you here.

Hugs from Isak and Even.

 

**4 /**

26 May

Dear Even,

I started this letter on a Tuesday morning. Writing you while I’m supposed to be 'working diligently.' The library is quiet this time of year. I am terrible at writing these letters, I seem to start four drafts until I give up and just say whatever comes to mind. I'm no writer in comparison to you, I can't ever keep all my thoughts in some kind of order that sounds nice. But I want to write you all the time. Just to say hello. But also to tell you that I'm reading your postcards. You're in my head, as present as ever before.

Every day is better than the day before. Ignore me, I'm already writing lies. If I am really honest, I never know what the next day will bring. I guess life never promised to be linear.

Sometimes I wake and the sun is shining a little through my window and I think, God, today could be the beginning of the end of this feeling. But then. Other days it is like I have woken up to only hours, and hours, and hours to go, and I’m unable to focus on anything. Those are the days when even getting out of bed and going to class feel impossible. Regardless summer in Berlin is starting to leave an impression on me. Sunshine is intoxicating. I've actually found some half-decent friends. My roommate keeps things interesting, at least. I’ll tell you about them another time. (Though I’m hoping some day you’ll meet him and see for yourself).

Now I've just surpassed you in Santorini, atop a hilly white village with little blue domed roofs. Looks like a long walk up to the top.

Anyway. The postcard. On the postcard, you wrote a nice quote from the bible, I think it is a quote from the book of Luke. I'm sure my mother would have really appreciated it, she loved when I was the one who brought up God . From a young age I figured out how to cheer her up. I'd ask her if I could read her out a Bible verse; or better yet, say a prayer. It took me years to figure out that not other parents were like this. I don't mean just the religious part; I mean that most children don't take it upon themselves to try and make their parents happy again.

For a while it worked. But my mother's story is a descending one, you understand. It doesn't exactly get better. Slowly I'm realising that at times it wasn't exactly getting worst, either. It just was. She struggled with her mental illness up until she died, but there were times - many times, actually, where she prevailed. I write this because it bears remembering. Those who struggle shouldn't have to struggle in silence. And the same goes for you. And me too, I guess.

Isak.

 

**5 /**

April : A lake in Macedonia

Transcript: Summer starts early for us. Is it sunny already in Oslo? Have the flowers started to bloom? We went to explore Macedonia after Greece. Addicted to the sunshine maybe. There are a few more stops, we decided, what with all these countries being so close.

I like riding the train especially. There’s plenty of time for us to catch up on reading, or listen to music, or watch as one country blends into another. Each with their own histories far greater than we can really comprehend. This lake was especially beautiful. We stayed all day. And it makes sense, when you know how much we like to swim. Maybe I more so than Even. Though he’d disagree.

Hugs from Isak and Even.

 

**5 /**

05 June

Dear Even,

The boys - Jonas, Madhi, Magnus rented an Airbnb just down the street. I feel like I've been anticipating their arrival for forever. It just confirms how much I can’t wait for you to be here someday too. I read your postcard, the one from Macedonia. I googled some images - and it looks beautiful. I don't know much about Macedonia other than what I've read on Wikipedia. The lake on this postcard, Lake Ohrid - is one of the oldest lakes in the world. Did you know that when you saw it? Did it feel old?

Here's the thing. This is kind of rushed, because the boys are here, and I realised time has gotten away from me. I wanted to surprise you, but now I think it's better if I let you know. I’ll be coming back to Oslo soon. Sooner than I planned. By the time this arrives, I might even be there already. I'm not sure I'll have everything figured out, and it's only for the summer, anyway, but I decided last minute it was time. I'll reach out to you as soon as I'm settled? I hope this is okay with you.

I kept thinking how it felt like a movie, just like a movie you'd love to watch.

Isak.

 

**6 /**

April: Key Gompa Temple, India

Transcript:

This is a Temple in Key Gompa, in Northern India. Doesn’t it look so serene? I’m grateful there are places in the world where there is peace. At night in the distance how the stars are nothing more than baubles of light, just like glowing lanterns hanging in the black sea of the night.

_Ich glaube, dass es die Existenz der Höchsten Intelligenz gibt, die das Universum durchdringt._

Thomas Edison could be said to have created the first commercially practical incandescent light. I can’t imagine finding any light bulbs here.

Thinking of you.

Hugs from Isak and Even.

 

**6 /**

11 June

Dear Even,

Wow. India is so far away. I think it was smart not to directly mention you were there; it would raise too many questions, wouldn't it? Sometimes I think you're too clever for your own good. It makes me nervous.

This quote from Thomas Edison. Remember it? Remember who you were, when you wrote it?  _I believe there is the existence of Supreme Intelligence pervading the Universe._

What I wonder about is that you wrote it in German, while you know my mother spoke only Norwegian and maybe some English. I mean of course she could easily have figured it out. But it's you. That's what I kept coming back to. It's you. So I couldn't help but wonder if you wrote it there as some kind of message to me. Hoping someday, in some way, I'd see it. I looked up Edison. Of course - and I was surprised to find he was a pretty outspoken atheist of his time. His big thing was the idea of a universal brain - no - he called it an intuition, at play here. I'm studying a lot of structuralists, and it reminds me almost of a universal 'institution' at work. A large multi-focal schema of operation here, spread throughout parallel dimensions, connecting and diverting at chaotic intervals left up to the randomness of the universe. But it makes me wonder.

Does there exist a universal truth for us? Does it exist like a latitude, splaying across every single parallel universe we may happen to exist in?

Perhaps somewhere, deep down, you knew a supreme intelligence intelligence may exist out there. Some kind of intuition as if things really do happen for a reason. It's comforting. Like we we're apart because that's how it's been ordained, and it wasn't for nothing, and I don't have to regret all this time we spent apart wasn't so terrible, wasn't for nothing. I spent two year agonising over the end of our relationship. Hating that I ran away and still too shit-scared to come back and try and fix it. Well, here we are. And when I read this postcard, I felt a relief. Like maybe you knew that I’d find my way back to you. Or maybe you at least had some faith the universe knew it for you.

Isak.

 

**7 /**

June: Gustav Klimt's the Kiss in Vienna, Austria

Transcript:

Sometimes when everything feels impossible, the only thing one can do is remember that love is the single most important creation of mankind. Love is as close to divinity as it gets.

Love is impossible, and yet we must love. In a way, the fact that we do not have a choice in the matter comforts me. We only have a choice in who we love.

Someday, somehow, if you read this, I hope you will understand what I mean. And when you do, I hope I’ll already be there. Come back to me. I’ll come back to you.

 

**7 /**

16 June

Dear Even,

The mushroom experience - such a weird fucking day. In a good way. I wasn't prepared for how much I would end up thinking about you. In a good way. I repeat, in a good way. I had realisation after realisation. I remembered all these amazing things about you, as if I had forgotten them somehow. I stopped feeling sad at once. I just was. And Life just was. And it was beautiful.

This one hit the hardest. I can't begin to tell you why - where to start first? I guess the shrooms were a part of it. I actually read this postcard while I was strung out and emotional from tripping all day. In the evening, after we'd returned from Tempelhofer Feld, I went to my room. I opened my drawer. Only Jonas remained and he sat outside with Martin. I could hear their laughter from my window. I pulled out the postcards until I found the next one.

I know she must have loved this one. I love it too. It’s the one from Vienna. I looked it up: it’s called the Kiss, the centre piece of the Belvedere's Gustav Klimt collection. I hear it's really large in real life. I wonder what you felt, standing there before it. I wonder how it touched you. Did it touch you? Right down into your gut, like a worm wiggling up in there and promptly exploding into confetti?

The only time I can recall feeling this recently was when we stood in your drafty pale bedroom. That painting you have on the wall. We stood there before that - what was it - the french artist? I don't think I'll ever forget how I felt staring at it. It was then I realised I was in love with you. No, no: it was then I realised I was in love with you still. These feelings didn't die so much as they sunk low into my subconscious and fell asleep.

I hope I'm not making you sad by saying any of this. I'm telling you because I loved this postcard so much. I wrote my own response to it. But I want it to be - I was so high, I don't want it to count. Think of it more like my letter to you. We tripped for hours, and by the time I was sober I had let everyone know about this damn letter so I couldn't not send it. So I did. Look for the second envelope, there’s a letter and a postcard for you inside.

Remember, I'm not artist like you. Neither am I really a writer. But I thought how funny it is, when you're high like that, to find some things so important. Like nothing ever could reach that level of importance otherwise. Now I don't have it in me to throw it out. Fuck embarrassing. What is embarrassing to us anyway?

Isak.

 

**8 /**

July: Sistine Chapel, Rome, Italy

Transcript:

This is just as beautiful in real life as it is in the photos. More so because you’re not just looking at it - you’re within it. It forces you to be present and behold.

It’s moments like these, standing below the Sistine Chapel that I am reminded of the glory of God. How He, in His greatness, inspires some of the greatest artefacts of human devotion. The power of faith is a beautiful thing to experience; perhaps more than anything else in this life.

Hugs from Isak and Even.

 

**8/**

28 June

Dear Even,

Well, I haven’t written in a while because we're here together in Oslo. Currently I'm sitting across from Tim Wendelboe, waiting for you to finish. Yes, I know, it's petty not to want to come in. But I hardly see the point. That green-haired girl you work with asked for my number last time, and while I could care less about telling someone  _no_ , it does make it a little awkward to continue to creep on her own workplace. Remind me again, when you're going to let her know about us?

I wonder what you were thinking when you were in Rome. I’d actually kill to know. I know that whatever happened in Vienna was intense - and from what you’ve told me already, it sounds like you were on the verge of feeling manic. You walked around all evening, getting drunk and thinking about the Kiss. Then you sat at Albertina Platz fountain in Vienna and you wrote me that postcard. You didn’t even sign it. I wonder what she must have thought. I’m sure this time you really intended it for me.

How did you phrase it - I can’t exactly remember how you worded it now. Something like - ‘be present and behold in His Glory’ while you stood under the Sistine Chapel, never knowing a year from now we’d be together again -

The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away. There’s no surprise, considering the divinity of the universe: I lost my mother, but I gained you. I’m not sure if God sees them as a fair trade. Perhaps it’s not a trade at all. He works in mysterious ways.

You’re nearly finished, and you’ve noticed me now, sipping your tiny coffee in the window behind the bar. This is why I like to sit here, where I have a view of you the entire time. It’s half past one. Now we’re going to take a drive down towards the southern Jeløy peninsula, because you said the flowers bloom there in a spread of white and golden all the way to the edge of the ocean. I’ve already decide to hide the letter in your bag so you can find it later. That way you it won’t distract you from today, and you’ll have something to open when you’re home again.

Isak.

 

**9 /**

August: A mountain range in Spain

Transcript:

It so warm this time of year. I found this post card in a tiny shop on a rest stop between hikes. We were in a group with eight elderly ladies. I know you’d be far better than us at this; you’d probably reach the top first.

I’m not sure when our return to Oslo is. I hope you are doing well and enjoying the flowers. They smell so strongly this time of year, it’s almost enough to forget they die only a few weeks later.

Hugs from Isak and Even.

 

**9 /**

07 July

Dear Even,

This postcard marks the return of your writing-as-me, and I laugh almost at the idea that you’d ever successfully rope me along into hiking. Personally I think you are right though - she would have loved to go on a walk like this, with the fresh air and other older ladies and have pointed out all sorts of natural wonders I probably wouldn’t have noticed. I never really appreciated how beautiful it can be, I’ve always lived in Oslo and Berlin is no haven of rugged terrain, that’s for certain. So I wonder if my mother was surprised to to read ‘I’ willingly did so. Though on second thought, she could have assumed it was just something I liked to do now that I’m older; no one stays a teenager forever.

I’m starting to understand this as well. Just today, as I write this, we had our first ‘argument.’ It wasn’t really even an argument, but we just couldn’t seem to align properly and everything felt strained and exhausting. I know when I met you today you were in a mood and I felt like I couldn’t get through to you. I thought it’d make me feel helpless, but I was surprised that I understood. Sometimes bad moods happen, and you can’t be as present as you want to be. We parted ways later that afternoon, your glasses partially obscuring how far away your gaze was, but still once you crossed the street you turned around and waved to me. I smiled and waved back. I watched as your figure became smaller and smaller and finally lost in the traffic of the street. Lost away in your head somewhere I can’t go too.

I know you’re going to feel bad about it later, too, but I want to say as I’m writing in the moment, you don’t have to. It’s okay. We’re re-learning each other, curves and edges and places we can no longer enter without facing the baggage which we must carry along with us now.

In a way, it’s kind of a relief.

We’re inside this dreamy languid moment together, one where Oslo feels invincible and unknowable and at the same time the most comforting, predictable place I’ve been in a long time - I can close my eyes and imagine the city as it falls around me, and when I open them again there’s you - always you standing before me, with this light in your eyes, looking at me like you can’t quite believe I’m really here. I know how that feels.

The realisation that we can be normal - not just caught up in each other, but on a day-to-day basis, be actual real people around each other - to know you’re not hiding your shadows, that you too, are human - only makes me want to love you more. It’s crucial, very crucial for you to know that I am committed to all of you; not just your very best.  The light, the darkness, and most importantly - all the mediocre days which fall in between.

And I hope you can accept me, in all the various shades of Red possible.

Isak.

 

**10 /**

August: The ocean in Lisbon, Portugal

Transcript:

Well, this marks the fourth ocean we’ve touched. Something about water, how blue, how big, how deep it is, how much it seems to confiscate the brightness of the sun and hold it. The existence of light swallowed by the belly of the ocean.

Once I read that the universe expands unto itself; there is nothing outside of it. There are often times where I think about the ocean like this too. It feels as if it is an unstoppable force of nature.

Wish you were here too. This city is bright yellow. It inspires a lightness of being. You’d love it.

Hugs from Isak and Even.

 

**10 /**

20 July

Dear Even,

It’s been a month since I've been in Oslo now, but it could be a lot longer. Summer has that quality to it, doesn’t it? By the end of month I’ll be returning to Berlin, which I’ve not talked about too much, only because it makes me so fucking sad - there’s a part of me, a very real part of me, that wishes I could stay here with you. We could get a place; we could move out together.

Late last night you showed up at my door. Jonas was out with the boys; I stayed in because I was tired and just wanted to smoke a joint and pass out. You were upset, the kind of upset where you didn’t want to make it a big deal but I could see it gnawing at you. Finally after we sat out on the balcony overlooking Tøyen sharing a single beer and smoking that joint I rolled, you opened up.

You were trying to set up a dinner between us and your roommates. To make a bridge between the four of us. I know you crave harmony the way people crave water; you wish you could be there to fix it all. The girls were uninterested - Hemi said she had plans, Mari was involved with her new girlfriend. Maybe those weren’t the real reasons either. It upset you. You don’t want anyone, especially those closest to you - to be at odds with each other. We stayed up all evening as you tried to explain how the last few weeks there's been an anxiety fretting in you: nerves eroding all your organs.

While it makes me so fucking annoyed -  _really_  - I also understand. I understand what it’s like to see you so sad, and what a terrible thing it is to pay witness to. They just don’t want to see you hurt, and who am I blame them, after all I’ve put you through?

I can already hear you disagreeing in my head. 

This postcard - the last one - well. I thought it would be easier to read these now that I’m here in Oslo again, but this is a fallacy. It is never easier, because the gratitude pours out of me in such a ferocity that it causes me pain; a pain meddled with regret and sadness and love, so much fucking love for you.

Lisbon looks beautiful, it really does. An entire city painted yellow. I can only imagine you’d fit right in. I’ve never considered what it would be like to feel a 'lightness of being' - as you wrote it - though I’d like to think it must feel similarly to this summer, as I first meet up with you; when your face is the one on the my doorstep - an irrevocable bubble of excitement swelling in me, threatening to burst at any moment and subduing me in a giddy refuge, where everything is beautiful and nothing hurts.

This is the final response. We've arrived at the end. But it will not be the last letter I write you. For now, I am setting down my pen so as to focus and be present for our last few weeks together. It’s the very least we deserve, after everything else. 

There's nothing else I can say, besides thank you. Thank you.

Isak.

 

-

 

[Front] Gustav Klimt's the Kiss

[transcript]: YOU ARE THE LOVER OF MY IMPOSSIBLE SOUL

[Back]:

15 June

There’s so much gold in this postcard. A year later, and it's still so bright. It reminds me of you. It reminds me of a dream where I'm swimming in a deep pool of gold and I'm asking myself, how deep down does this gold go? And if I put my head under the surface, would it remain gold? Gold as far as I can see, until I’m swallowing heaps of it, until I’m nothing but gold, and gold and - listen. I'm still pretty high and I don’t know where this thought is going.

I read it until I couldn’t see anymore and my eyes were wet and cloudy, and a single tear smudge the ink where you wrote the address. I was so angry after, like you wouldn’t believe. I felt like I had ruined the actual painting itself.

It might as well be.  The postcards are a representation of a life which no longer exists. It's as simple as this: if you addressed it under Marianne Valtersen to the residence in Fagerborg now, it would be returned to you within a matter of weeks. That address no longer exists, you see. There’s no person any longer to receive it.

All we have is the past now, my mother and I. The past and the postcards. I can't bear to maim any part of it. You must understand. I can't bear it.  

LETTER

**1 /**

TO EVEN:

You - you are the lover of my impossible soul. You see every single thing in me and you love it all anyway. I wanna know how you do it. How you see these things. How could I ever ask for anything more in this life?

Here’s what I realised. I know now, what I didn’t before. Here’s what I need to say. Fuck clichés. Fuck what other people think. Fuck all the other universes, second chances, the purgatory of will-they-won’t-they. Fuck everyone else. Right now I’m just talking about us.

Us. I’m certain now that if I don’t go to Oslo to tell you I love you then all else in my life from here on out will be dimmed in comparison. A washed out greyness diluting every other experience. You're a shadow that follows me wherever I go. You're a phantom limb hanging off my body and hitting every single person I meet. I don’t want to be the person who had love once and gave it up. I’d rather fail than never try. I’d rather die than never try.

And fuck, there billions of souls out there. Fucking billions. And there are billions of ways to fall in love. I’m sure I’m capable. But I don’t want capable; I want you. I want your exact edges right up against my edges; so close that when we touch there are burn marks from the sheer tension. I want your soul and my soul and our souls together; ignited in that seamless union we create whenever we’re in mere proximity of each other. You look at me and it's like the rest of the world may as well not even exist. You look at me and we're in that quiet hidden place we’d disappear into; where only our mouths and our hands and the whispered nothings you’d lull me to sleep mattered.

What you and I have is rare. All of it; the beginning, the middle, and the end. We must accept that this is rare. We must face, without apology or excuse, and admit what we do to each other. We must say out loud that we fell in love and neither of us have ever recovered from it. I gave you a piece of my heart and I don’t want it back. This kind of love takes and takes and takes. Once it broke us. We didn't understand it; we fucked it up. Once, it was not enough.

I told you back in January. Now, I promise you something: if we try again. We can be better than we were. What I mean by that is this: I promise I’ll love the way I’ve always wanted to. Without reservation or fear. I’ll buy you flowers every Sunday if you want. We’ll hold hands every evening. We’ll watch the summer disappear before us.

That’s all I really have.

 

-

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me (literally, I'm just there be-bopping around) on tumblr [here](http://odeto-psyche.tumblr.com)  
> Check out the mood board for Harvest Moon [here!](http://odeto-psyche.tumblr.com/tagged/h.moon)  
> Previous mood boards for [LOMIS](http://odeto-psyche.tumblr.com/tagged/lomis) & [COLSS](http://odeto-psyche.tumblr.com/tagged/colss) for your enjoyment.
> 
> Kudos, bookmarks, comments - any discussion or recognition that you liked this story, on any internet platform, is music to my ears, and makes this writing-fic-thing so much fucking fun. So please, if you liked this story, leave some love in any way you feel comfortable, or send me a message on tumblr and let's be friends. Danke Liebling(s)! 
> 
> ALT ER LOVE.


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